


Shadows on the Snow

by Nightmist



Series: Shadows From the Sun [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: AWFUL LOTTA FEELS UP IN HERE, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Biting, Dark, Developing Relationship, Drama, Emotional Constipation, Eventual Smut, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Seething Sexual Tension, Still kinda hopeful though, Vampire!Aymeric, Vampires, Violence, emotional stupidity, kinda dubious consent cause vampires?, oops (thanks Microsoft Works!)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 90,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22840918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmist/pseuds/Nightmist
Summary: When the revelation came at the height of the next winter, when Thordan ascended the dias and showed his fangs, when the Ward surrounded him, white teeth gleaming like daggers in the dark, there was no one left to fight or protest. Too many nobles converted, the Temple Knights lead by his mortal son, the dragon-blooded now either bound in blood and magic to their rulers, or running desperate, hiding in the wild as their richer veins were eagerly sought to flood the new vampiric masters with power.Wherein a vampiric Aymeric claims Estinien as his personal servant and bodyguard as he clashes with the current power structure in Ishgard and attempts to cope with his new nature.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Series: Shadows From the Sun [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881406
Comments: 287
Kudos: 215





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work, which is going to be much longer than I originally thought, owes much to Rosamynal as Patient Zero, and Shoutz for shrieking with me and her excellent Castlevania AU, then encouraging me when I took it and veered into classic vampire territory. It certainly also owes no small of debt to a great amount of urban fantasy and paranormal romance novels consumed over the years as well.

Nearly six years ago, the comet lit the skies, then as it fell, as it exploded in shards of dust and starstuff, it darkened them, vast clouds of debris turning the atmosphere to a lasting shroud. In their wake, the snows came, and the land descended into the wailing winds of winter. In the wake of the winter dark, everyone assumed, came the blood drinkers. Oh, the rumors had been there all along, but before, they had been scattered, isolated. Now, that had changed.

No one seemed to know exactly when the conversion had happened, when the rash of deaths, especially among the poor and desperate, had stopped being mostly about a lack of food and safe housing and begun to become disappearances. When the church had begun to open its doors late in the night, in the dim hours when clouds choked the sky. When the clergy had become paler, sharper around the edges, everyone had thought it was lack of sleep, the stress, the poor food. 

They did remember when the dragon-blooded had begun to disappear, those who had been born with greater strength, speed, power, who had been the protectors to the land against their ancient ancestors. Almost a year had gone by since the meteor, then, and their ranks were never vast, especially with the dragons eager to take advantage of the chaos, but within a mere handspan of months only a score were still known. When some of them reappeared, eyes glazed and dull, and trotting obediently in the wake of the clerics and temple knights, well, so what if something seemed off? At least they were there, at least the people felt more protected. 

When the revelation came at the height of the next winter, when Thordan ascended the dias and showed his fangs, when the Ward surrounded him, white teeth gleaming like daggers in the dark, there was no one left to fight or protest. Too many nobles converted, the Temple Knights lead by his mortal son, the dragon-blooded now either bound in blood and magic to their rulers, or running desperate, hiding in the wild as their richer veins were eagerly sought to flood the new vampiric masters with power. 

If Estinien Wyrmblood had been a smarter man, or a less loyal one, that was when he would have fled Coerthas entire. Instead, he had taken himself into the surrounding wilds, avoided the city, trusted that the friendship he and the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights had forged as soldiers together would protect him, that the good, kind man he had known would not betray anything that led to him, and he could continue his own mission, fighting the dragons that preyed on the people, gathering tokens of claw and fang, using them to strengthen his own inner power. He had forgotten that even if Aymeric de Borel was not likely to betray him, it was all too likely that the Commander himself would be betrayed.

He should have fled when he was stopped out hunting by a goblin in the Hinterlands, who had asked him if he was 'a dragon man', then on confirmation, said, "We told tell you, 'Too late, time to go'." Instead of leaving immediately, he'd felt stupidly confident in his bolthole, deep in the ruins of one of the Sharlyan buildings, trusting to its concealment again that night as he'd considered options. He was all but buried in the depths, behind crumbled walls and tangling vines, trusting to fractured mosaics and rubble to announce unfamiliar feet on the floor. A scrape of metal on stone woke him, deep in the dark, and he had rolled to reach for his lance, and stopped at a familiar frame silhouetted dimly against the weaker shadows outside of the small fortified room he'd claimed, broad shoulders and hard muscles, and even when it was just a shape, disconcertingly arresting. Instinct was a betrayal; even if he should not have been here, not now, not _here_ , the old trust, the old habit was too easy, and he's mouthed a name before his mind is fully awake. "Aymeric?"

Even years later, he can't really remember what came after in any coherent fashion. He knows that the man moved too fast for the person he'd known, who was a mighty warrior but not one of dragon blood, not someone who should have been able to be from the doorway to _against him_ in less than a blink of an eye. Aymeric said… something, in a low choked voice. No matter how much he tries, Estinien can never recall the exact words, only the strain of them. He thinks it was some sort of apology. The rest is a muddled jumble of sensations; lips on his neck, then teeth sliding in like needles. Heat, pleasure, pain, a sensation like floating… The bite was good. The bite has to be good, so they can keep feeding. Then the pain became overwhelming, centered around something that slips below his ribs and spears through him, a nova of awareness and agony until it becomes too much, his mind snaps under the strain, and it all goes dark.

When he wakes again, it was somewhere very different. Gone were the decaying stones and withered vines, gone was the hard surface of his bedroll and the cool, crisp scent of the Hinterlands air. Instead, his surroundings are dark, but soft, almost unbearably warm and the air is heavily perfumed with sandalwood and the no longer at all comforting smoke of church incense, making Estinien's head swim. He tries to jerk upright and finds himself held almost casually in place by a hand that had been buried in his hair, stroking it. The touch is gentle, but trying to resist is like trying to fly through earth; there is no arguing with the laws of nature. With a low groan, he gives up the attempt and lies back down against what turns out to be an overstuffed bed, swathed in silk sheets and furs and radiant in its decadence. 

Slitting his eyes open, he tries to take stock of the situation more fully, resolve it with his memories. The spots of high heat in his neck; the ragged ache of something deep in his torso that throbs disconcertingly like a second heartbeat. The darkness starts to resolve into an elegantly appointed bed chamber, and when that binding hand starts to drag through the uneven silver strands of his hair again, he remembers enough that it is as if he's suddenly immersed in a river of ice. _Aymeric, too fast, too strong, too inhuman. Aymeric, fangs in his neck, feasting._ His gaze snaps open fully, and sure enough, curled around him like a maiden nursemaiding her lover is his longtime friend. Estinien stares, takes in the bronzed skin fading now into white gold, all the sharper against the rook's plumage of his hair, the flash of too sharp teeth when a gaze still pale blue but now almost electrically surging with power catches his own. His voice rasps in his throat, low and horrified, and he whispers, "Aymeric, what did you _do_?"

He expects guilt or shame in response to the question; that would have been the answer from the man he thought he knew. Instead, a jaw that might have been shaped by a sculptor's chisel sets firm with stubbornness, and when the vampire - because there is no denying that word, now, no question what happened while he was hiding in the snows - answers, those fingers continue to pet through his hair, each touch spreading like rime over a windowpane. "I kept you alive, my dear friend, which they had been so very sure I would not." There's a challenge boiling in the depths of his eyes, but the anger is aimed elsewhere, beyond this stifling room and redolent air. "You have apparently been inconvenient, with your powerful blood, and letting me kill you in my presumed clumsiness would have made for a useful blade to hang over my head. Fortunately, I have often been more capable than others assumed and unwilling to discard a beloved weapon." Too smug, those words, a surety that could have only come in the transformation, the burning away of too many fragile pieces of a man's soul.

"You didn't just _keep me alive_ , damn you, that wouldn't have taken biting me or --" Estinien cuts himself off, reaches for his back, feeling the pull of a bandage on his skin as he does so. "Did you _STAB_ me, you blood-drinking bastard?"

Aymeric's voice is downright petulant when his hand fists in Estinien's hair, tangling the moonglow strands til he can't move. "Estinien. You know I would rather that you restrain your temper outside of battle." He waits a moment, almost visibly counting to ten, then slowly loosens his grip, starting to undo what he's knotted. "But yes, I would have to admit that I did indeed. It was necessary. Bonding a blood-servant is… unpleasant, but it was take you myself, kill you, or let some member of the Ward claim you as their own plaything." His eyes glitter menacingly in the darkness as they meet the dragon-blooded's, and his voice deepens, gains a rough edge. "I was _not_ letting someone else possess you."

Estinien's mind flashes back to one of his last days in Ishgard before he fled, when he'd gone to the market to buy supplies. While there, he had spotted Heustienne, who if not precisely a _friend,_ had been a respected rival in training, and a solid ally in the field since. She had seemed to look through him without seeing. At the time, he had dismissed it as her developing airs after a rise in power, since she had recently begun to be seen around the city with Ser Zepherin of the Ward. He'd assumed a romance, that her sense had fled and she'd started chasing after the vampiric high like far too many noble women. Now…

Deep blue eyes dulled with regret, he turns his gaze to the wall behind Aymeric, avoiding his gaze. "That's what happened to Heustienne. He… Did whatever you did to her and took her will away." In the edges of his gaze, he can see Aymeric nod. Then, fury floods back into his voice and he tears himself out from under the hand, scalp stinging as more than a few strands of silver are left behind, tangled between the vampire lordling's fingers. " _Alberic_. What happened to Alberic? _Who has him_?"

He knows the truth almost as soon as Aymeric's shoulders fall in an artlessly boneless slump. "Ser Alberic gave up much of his power in artifacts to you… But not his strength of will. They could not take him alive. Which is why they were so sure I would have to slay his protégé."

Most of Estinien wants to weep, even as he glares barbed daggers at the desecrated body of his one time friend. More terribly, a small part of him is glad; his foster father is no plaything to a vampire, but died clean and in control of his own sense. Unlike himself. He keeps his eyes on that too lovely face, lets rage and sorrow distort his own into a grotesque mask. "But _you_ took advantage of my trust in who you were."

Finally, Aymeric has to look away. "Yes." It's not an apology, but it is an admission, and if there's any remnants of his original self, the shame of it should be burning him within. Good. Gathering his dignity once more, the transformed Commander stands. "You should rest. Recover. I'll have food and drink sent in." After he turns and leaves, Estinien flops back down into the bed, allowing himself a brief time for mourning. It's just as well he does, because it's a long time before he ever gains another opportunity.

((-----))

When he wakes again, Estinien is less discombobulated and takes better stock of his surroundings. The lack of windows in the room is a disappointment, but not a surprise -- they were falling increasingly out of favor in Ishgard before he left, all too many bricked or boarded over to protect the newly transformed residents from the risk of sunlight or, more rarely, to keep out the transformed. The throbbing ache from his wound has dulled, although it feels strangely… heavy? Tugged downwards? The sensation is confusing and he prefers not to dwell on it too much. 

Further exploration reveals that the door is unlocked, but even when he finds windows or doors to the outdoors, his body simply… stops obeying if he tries to pass through them. Given that discovery, he expects the failure of response in his system the night he waits til his food arrives and he tries to attack the servant. Frustrating, but he didn't expect so little in the way of imprisonment unless there was coercion more subtle than actual bonds or bars to keep him behaving. His teeth grind and he supposes he should just be grateful his mind has remained his own.

Several days pass in that same hazed state; he is free to roam and explore the house, meals are brought to him, but there is no freedom beyond that, no access to weapons or armor. The lord of the manor seems to be avoiding him, for whichever of many possible reasons, and it leaves him with little to do but brood and pace in frustration.

((-----))

He knows he's not going to like what comes next when the servants silently bring his armor to his room, then begin laying out a set of new additions next to it; a golden ear cuff dangling crystal in a too familiar shade of blue and wide bands of gold for his neck and limbs, each holding a pattern formed from inset slices of dragon tooth and claw. The power in them is almost palpable to his senses, setting his blood to singing, and to resist the draw of it, he seats himself firmly on the edge of the bed.

The chances that he'd just be handed enough power to fight back against the hold Aymeric has on him are nothing. As such, fantasizing about using the power to break free or fight back is going to be a waste of his time and energy. That raises the question, however, about why he is being handed it, and the only answers he can come up with are ever more concerning.

When the door opens, he's still perched cross-legged on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands curled under his chin, contemplating the pile of gear. He flicks his gaze to Aymeric's form, watching as the vampire in his old friend's form eases the door closed behind him, leaning against it. He seems uncomfortable, slightly tensed, and it takes a second or two before he straightens and speaks. "I have been attempting to be patient and allow you time to adjust to the new situation. Alas, it seems my ability to put off the insistence that I 'show you off', by which I mean, prove that I haven't killed you and lied about it, has reached an impasse. So, you will need to prepare yourself for tonight. And…" His voice trails off, and it slowly becomes clear to Estinien that whatever comes next, even this Aymeric is uncomfortable discussing it.

This is not a thought he likes. He waits a few heartbeats, then asks quietly, "And what? You must think I won't approve, whatever damning detail it is." Sure enough, Aymeric looks away, although he's still blocking the door.

"I will not force you, understand." Aymeric is _hesitant_ , and that's almost worse, because it makes him too much like the man he used to know, shows the bones that make up the vampire he is now and reveals that even if damaged and twisted, _he's still there_. The raven-haired man shifts his weight slightly, and the movement draws attention to how simply he's dressed, not armored for battle or public display, but still clad in trews and tunic, showing the vulnerability of being safely ensconced at home. Finally, he continues speaking. "It would be for the best if I feed before this meeting. And given the challenge I am likely to face for bringing you there whole…" His gaze flicks back, that icy blue going electric again, and it's full of desperate _hunger_. Not the sort of quiet admiration or wistfulness that Estinien used to think he saw peering around the edges of friendship, but something naked and raw, and tinged by more appetites than just that for food.

Suddenly very aware of the confines of the room, the dragon-blooded man swallows deliberately, keeping his eyes on the vampire's face as he brushes long silver hair back behind his shoulders. Sure enough, that gaze locks onto his neck and shines with desperation. It takes more than a small exertion of willpower to keep from shivering. "You mean you want to feed on _me_ , because that's the whole point, isn't it? Having all that power to drink and augment your own, kept under your hand?" He's sure bitterness is seeping into his tone, but he can't make himself regret it. "What happens if I say thee no?"

He watches as Aymeric's arms cross over his chest, almost protective, then uncross again. "Then as I am still the least experienced and well-fed among them, I imagine I will have another evening of being used as an outlet of aggression for whomever is irritated that my father 'allowed' me to claim you, versus someone more properly loyal." The words are bland, too much so, as if the man has practiced at keeping the venom from them. Which is another trait that is too familiar, that tendency to accept his own pain at the expense of another.

Estinien shifts, knowing his mind is made up even as he continues to argue internally. It's not that he has any liking for this situation, because he does not, but he is inarguably _alone_ , and if it is only grasping at the shadows of a dear friend, well… perhaps it is better to be consumed by a shadow than be alone in the sun. "Fine. If you must. Just…" He trails off, and realizes he has no idea what to follow that up with. Any request he could make seems ludicrous. "Just get it over with, then tell me what I have to do, if it's more than show up and try not to talk."

This would be much easier if the way Aymeric walks towards him doesn't look so much like a wolf stalking through the trees, full of predatory grace despite his unease. Estinien turns his head and his gaze away as much as he dares as the other man leans over him in his seated posture, setting his gaze on the flames on the fireplace, telling himself that he will just focus on that, let his mind go, and… absent himself from his body as much as possible until it's done.

That idea does not make it past the first instant when cool fingertips touch under his chin, notching it up gently, another set brushing his hair back further, then tracing along the column where his pulse runs, no doubt feeling how wildly it's fluttering under the skin. Which it is, damn it all, no matter how much Estinien wants to pretend otherwise, the blood is pounding in his head at even the glimpse from the corner of his eyes of Aymeric's face, soft and gold-limned with firelight, tracing his features with open appreciation and pleasure. Slowly, almost delicately, the hand on his neck slides back, cradling along his spine, and the vampire leans down and nearer, nearer…

Somehow, like before, when he finally strikes, it's fast enough to be a shock despite the anticipation that has drawn his skin into electric tingles. The sensation is wet, hot, and sharp; lips soft and cool before rapidly warming to match his own body, the almost finessed feel of something just barely piercing through the skin, slipping _into_ him, and a rush of pulsing intense pleasure that starts at those tiny pinpricks and ripples out and through him like the heady effect of the most powerful liquor. There's a faint, low sound from a throat, satisfied and thick, and the corner of his mind still holding onto rationality realizes he has no idea which of them it comes from, if it's Aymeric sating himself on his power or the way his body has instinctively swayed into the bite, leaning closer, finding he's curled one hand around the other man's forearm, _holding him in place gripping his neck_. A wash of mingled shame and confused desire floods his system, and he has never been as grateful for anything as he is when the slight spark of pain disappears and the vampire's mouth lifts away from him.

The sound of overly fast breathing seems to echo in the room, stone walls bringing every minute sound back to his ears. Estinien can see a slight flush on Aymeric's face as he looks away, tongue briefly flickering over those too sharp canines to clean them. "I think… that is enough for the first time. I would not want to leave you overly weak before a potentially stressful evening." Gathering his decorum once more, the vampire rises, his gaze flicking to the artifacts. "I'll return shortly after dark. Please be dressed by then." He stalks from the room, and after a slightly shaky breath out, Estinien goes to dress in the returned armor, along with the… unfortunate accessories. The wide bands around every limb are bad enough, but it's not til he fastens the clasp of the ear cuff around one ear and feels the constant slight swaying pull of the crystal that he feels just how thoroughly _marked_ by possession he is. 

((-----))

Once they depart the manor, the short walk to the Cathedral is chill and dark. With this first opportunity to examine the changes in Ishgard since his departure, Estinien finds himself less than reassured. The houses are full and lit with hearths aglow with heat, but most of the lanterns on the street are left untended, and the uncomfortable feeling dogs his heels that if he was not walking at Aymeric's side, the darting shapes in the shadows would resolve themselves into less than friendly forms eager to stop a traveller out alone in the dark. The one piece _not_ returned to him had been his helm, and he feels painfully exposed without it.

When they enter the Cathedral itself, Aymeric follows a winding series of hallways into the depths and the more private areas. Long before they actually reach their goal, the air grows thick and heavy with clouds of incense, almost suffocating in the reek of myrrh and frankincense and rockrose resin. It's not until they're almost upon a set of great double doors that something else snakes its way into his senses -- blood and sweat. Almost hidden beneath the smoky haze, but little question now the true purpose of its covering aroma. Whatever will be found lying beyond those doors, it will be far from holy anymore.

As Aymeric reaches for the door he pauses, looking back over his shoulder, voice soft with warning. "Remember. Talk as little as possible. No fighting but in my defense or your own. Please, do not make me enforce either rule beyond your capacity to resist." There's a silent request for apology in his eyes, and for a moment, the world tilts, vertiginous, as Estinien contemplates what in there may be so bad that he is given this request, in this way. Then the doors swing inwards and the room beyond blooms into view. 

The high stone ceilings and formal architecture reveals enough of the religious origins, enhanced by the drifting fumes, but the hard lines have been softened with hanging swathes of dark velvet, the stark furniture now more ornate, often lushly upholstered. There may be a downside to that, as a glance catches a large, rather concerning faded stain on one and Estinien quickly resolves not to look more closely. The room is crowded, a swirl of chaotic color and hue, although it leans heavily to the side of dark. The thought flits through his mind a moment later, _better to hide the bloodstains_. Swallowing, he tries to focus on the people.

It is far easier than he might have believed to pick the vampires out from the rest. Not by the expected things; their skin may have paled a little, away from the sun, but hasn't all of theirs? Not by the flash of light on fangs, although that betrays some. No, it's the way they stand or sit, confident in their roles as the centres of the heavens, as nobles and the most exquisite of forms swirl around them, flirt, flatter, turn their faces towards them like flowers to the sun. They are the locus of power, the heart of it all, and each one seems to know it into the very rotting marrow of them. 

The Ward are easy to pick out, all sleek silver and brilliant blue, each claiming some niche of luxury, surrounded by sycophantic forms. Like a lodestone, the cornsilk blonde gleam of Ser Zephirin's hair pulls his gaze, and he finds what he was looking for, and what he feared. Legs curled beside her, seated on the floor at his feet like a loyal hound, is Heustienne. Her gaze is as empty as it was near a year ago, other than a brief second when it lands on him as he paces behind Aymeric as he cuts through the crowd; for a single heartbeat, there is a deep wellspring of regret before it fades. Then she is once more seeming lost in her own mind, bedecked in dragoon's mail that's been draped in beaded swaths of dragon claws that sway with her movements, beat a soft tattoo against her bared belly as her eyes turn up to the vampire looming over her. Suppressing a shudder, Estinien locks his gaze on Aymeric's back, a meager attempt to keep it from wandering further as the vampire he shadows seeks some yet unseen goal.

They're almost to the far wall when a slim robed form in white and silver, shining blue, steps in front of Aymeric, lifting one soft tan hand. "Stop. No further until we're sure that your new toy is really what we claim. After all, we can't go _assuming_ your loyalty to your father yet, can we?" Ser Charibert, it seems, has changed little, either in the arrogance that comes from being a Tribunal and able to question anyone at will, nor at his sadistic pleasure at getting to do so. Already, his lips are curled to reveal fangs, the candlelight gleaming off of the dark sparkle of his eyes as he considers them. "I trust you have enough control to make sure he doesn't move if you order, no matter how many of these little talismans you show off." One slim finger flicks, striking against the golden band at Estinien's wrist and it takes a great effort and the memory of the warning words before they entered to keep him from lashing out in return with voice or body.

Then Aymeric speaks, and he _can not_ , even if he wishes to, the lord's voice carrying a low, rich thrum of power as the pale blue of his eyes meet the dragon-blooded's, bearing another of those damnable silent apologies. "Do not move, do not speak, until I say you may again, Estinien." 

The reason for the dramatics -- and worse, the utter loss of _self control_ \-- becomes clear as Charibert reaches for him, picks up one mail clad arm, and turning it over, unlatching gauntlets and baring his lower arm. When he draws fingers over the bared skin, too familiarly, the touch less like a lover than a man admiring a fine chocobo, it is unsettling… and then in a flash, it becomes **_burning_** , as flame wreathes the vampire's fingers in a close halo, sinks into the skin he touches. If he could, Estinien would scream, pull away, strike back, but he can do nothing but pant for air, his eyes widening as the scent of flesh _cooking_ adds a horrible, meaty addition to the sickening atmosphere.

It seems like forever. It can't have been, though, because while he thinks he can almost see Aymeric move this time, it's more than fast enough as he roughly pulls the other man's hand back, his voice thick with rage and tension. "I agreed you could _test_ that I had control over him, not that you could use him as one of your sick playthings. Keep the need to torture fear into them to your own food." His face is twisted, snarling to display the gleam of fangs in implicit threat, and it's a relief when he adds as an afterthought, "You are free to move and speak as you will again." 

Instinctively, as soon as he's free to move, Estinien hisses in pain, cradling his arm to his chest before he dares to look down. The damage is far less than he feared, but three round circles from pressing fingers have been seared into him, the skin red and weeping pus in the wake of the flames. With luck, if treated before the end of the night, it might not even scar. Still clasping his arm close with the other, he looks back up the other two men, Charibert's face all but aglow with pleasure from his pain and in response to the barely contained fury in Aymeric's eyes.

"Come now, it's my _duty_ to keep Thordan safe. You wouldn't want me to fail to properly protect your own father, would you?" The sadist is all but purring the words, clearly hoping to bait Aymeric into a mis-step. Such a simple gambit is all but guaranteed failure, and so it does, as the more newly-sired vampire tenses his shoulders, then relaxes them, falling back into his usual cool, confident stance.

"I would like for you to stop delaying and allow me to present my prize to my father, as he ordered." The voice is more calm and even than expected given the accompanying hints of tension subtly visible along muscles, but it does well enough as the two transfigured men lock gazes and wills for a long few seconds. Then Charibert is sweeping aside a curtain and ushering them into a small alcove beyond.

Particularly compared to the sybaritic decadence beyond, the space where Thordan made his nest, the spider at the center of the web, was almost austere. The floors and walls retained no more decoration the original high quality of the stone and carvings. If the chair where he sat resembled a throne, well, so it always had. Perhaps the only significant difference was that the heavy smog of the incense that lingered beyond was just as rich here now, and the lighting was dimmed and cozy, banked braziers casting a golden glow and throwing off waves of wavering heat. 

As a vampire, the man in question had changed, however. Gone was the slight stoop and the tired droop to his features; he was not returned to youth, but vigor was there again, an animating force and strength of will that took his confidence and aura of power to an entirely new level. As with his son, the strength of what he could command all but crackled in the pale blue gaze, alight like levin, and as he leaned back in the chair to study them, those hooded eyes were as chill and calculating as a couerl on the hunt.

Aymeric's body dips low into a bow, and Estinien jolts himself into following the gesture in turn. The scar, if that's what to call it, of where Aymeric bound him is starting to throb deep inside his torso, a knot of tension at odds with the calm mien of the vampire's face. Taking it as a cue, he holds himself tensed, tries to make sure he's calmed his temper as much as possible as the dark haired man begins to speak. "As requested, I have brought my bondservant to the court to prove a successful completion of my assigned mission. I hope that my efforts have brought some small degree of improvement to your night, sire."

Estinien can feel the weight of it when Thordan's gaze turns to him, and the elder vampire commands, "Let's see what all of the bother was about." For a few moments, he is studied, then all but dismissed. "On the surface, no more remarkable than any other of his kind. However, it seems from what I overheard that you were at last motivated to make proper use of your abilities. Even able to keep him still through Charibert's overzealousness, weren't you? Good, it's past time you pushed beyond the remnants of your childish sentimentality."

The dragon-blooded's nostrils flare, but he doesn't need the intense tension of the scar to tell him not to respond any more than he already has. A moment longer, and there is a very slight nod from Thordan. "Since he's damaged, I supposed we can put off displaying what skills he brings a while longer. I would, however, like to see how a better quality of food has benefited you." The man's eyes narrow, and he waves a nearby servant over. "Tell Ser Janlenoux to prepare one of the rings for a brief bout." The man scurries off, and Estinien risks a moment's glance towards Aymeric, whose hand rests lightly on his sword pommel, the picture of confidence. He's sure, however, whether it's the magical link or long experience with the man he once was, that that confidence is a sham, and is horrified to recognize a sinking fear in his gut as he thinks about the fact that the only times Aymeric has had this supposed _better quality food_ was the night he found him and this one, and neither was anywhere near the stories of what he's heard in terms of amount taken.

((----))


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > The vampire lordling does step back a little at that, sinking into the next nearest chair. "Which of me… Oh." He frowns a little, leaning his elbows on spread knees and interweaving hands under his chin as he leans forward, watching Estinien with what is still rather discomforting intentness. "Do you remember the story from our training about the sword of your ancestors?"
> 
> On how the Ship of Theseus metaphor applies to vampires, and other important lessons in baiting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely thought this'd take another week or two. And then the last few scenes basically VIOLENTLY EXPLODED onto my keyboard in sudden demand, so uh... Here we are. 
> 
> A gentle reminder that the 'Dubious Consent Cause Vampires' tag is there for a reason; I'm not gonna go into anything explicitly sexual with it because I have lines I don't want to cross, but there's things going on here that are definitely in grey areas, and I don't want anyone uncomfortable in ways they don't want to be.

A servant -- or at least what Estinien assumes is a servant, by their simpler garb and manner -- leads the way through a few hallways to a large room with a combatant's ring set up in the center. He is rather firmly parted from Aymeric's side by a tug on his sleeve from a young man with wide, dark eyes who he thinks he recognizes as still in training when he left Ishgard. If so, perhaps it explains the courtesy of the handkerchief pressed into his hand, allowing him to at least bind up the burns on his arm with the clean linen, helping tamp down the distraction of the pain. Or maybe not, given that he finds the other man taking a seat across the ring from where he's been settled, near where Ser Janlenoux is engaging in a series of preparatory exercises with his sword. Studying the position, he decides that in all likelihood, it means the man is bonded to Janlenoux, which means the handkerchief was… what? A courtly courtesy? An attempt at a more fair fight, so that his presumed mewling wouldn't distract Aymeric? An attempt to throw him off guard? Estinien has never enjoyed politics and finding himself suddenly less immersed in them than having his head held underwater in the political ocean is exceptionally stressful.

Unaware of the motion til after it begins, he curls his good arm over the aching tension deep within from his wound, watching the other knight practice. Janlenoux is not one the more notorious members of the Ward, but he would not have gained that status without some significant amount of skill before he was transformed. His movements now are quick and sure, displaying more than enough speed to eliminate any question about his current nature or that he likely has access to powerful blood. The rest of the room is filling in, power and its hangers-on, standing and leaning against walls. Estinien can see more than a few cases of a quiet exchange of money between hands and regrets that he can't hear what outcome they're betting on from his location. The clink of shifting metal and the faint creak of well-worked leather ring in his ears, marking Aymeric's return, now properly carrying his own weapon and shield.

It is well timed to the arrival of his sire. The word _father_ seemed ill suited before all that has transpired and now? Applying a term of such nearness and devotion seems a sacrilege worse than what the man has made of Halone's sanctuary. 

Absently, Estinien thumbs the new ear cuff for a moment, then at some signal he misses, the two men are striding into the ring. He goes still, watching intently. Both Aymeric and Janlenoux move into ready posture, shields forward, swords gripped in hand, and then there's a stamp of staff butt against the floor from the side of the arena to open the match and it's all a blur at first. They're so damnably _fast_. He finds, however, that if he focuses, he can track Aymeric's movements, better than he can his opponent. The movements he makes are the same familiar elegant yet brutally efficient sweeps and thrusts, merely now done at a speed that strains the edges of belief. 

Estinien doesn't realize he's started to almost relax and enjoy this like he once did when they were still knights together, watching Aymeric train and work out. Then Janleoux lands a glancing blow that skids off the armor of Aymeric's shoulder with a shriek of metal-on-metal. Suddenly, irrationally, the certainty comes to him that the blow was hard enough to split skin beneath the armor, which he shouldn't know just from watching, but as he continues to track his companion, seeing how Aymeric favors his shield arm after that, Estinien is somehow sure he's right. The savage dance of blade and block continues, the sounds of impact on metal and wood and flesh ringing in the air over the disconcertingly bored-seeming murmur of onlookers. This is no polite bout to first blood; there's too many strikes that draw low sounds, a quick jerk of well-timed swordwork that slams Janlenoux's shield up against his chin, splitting it and leaving trails of blood dripping down his neck. That, well, _that_ draws a far more notable reaction from the crowd. The tension in the room grows as both men start to lag, but in the end, a similar trick works again; this time, Amyeric braces and slams his weight forward and against Janlenoux's shield when blocking a blow, knocking it up again, this time hard enough to snap the other knight's head back. The Ward's fighter collapses to the floor, unconscious, and the dark haired vampire turns promptly to face his sire, bowing deeply.

There's a brief moment of tension as the room waits for a response, then Thordan's head is inclined, very slightly. "Well. It is, at least, an improvement, isn't it? Hopefully it will continue to be so." One slim, long-nailed hand waves in the air. "You are dismissed for tonight. I have other matters to attend to."

((----))

At least the travel back to Aymeric's household is mercifully quick and uninterrupted. As soon as they're within, one of the servants is at the door with a medical kit, presenting it to the vampire lord with a deep bow. The fact that apparently bringing one without question on any return from the "court" is a matter of course is telling enough. The dragoon makes a half-hearted attempt to take the kit but is less than surprised when he's gently pushed away, despite the fact that he knows there's bruises and at least a few cuts under Aymeric's armor. Instead, he trails in the vampire's wake until the path ends in his own bedchamber. 

Once he's stepped within, the door is closed, and Aymeric turns to him, starting to strip his gauntlets off. "Let me see the burns, please? I've treated more than a few of my own over the past year before I was turned, and I should be able to keep it from marking." Despite the request, his hands are already pulling Estinien's wrist to him and removing the handkerchief wrapped over the burn marks. He can't quite suppress a hiss when pulling it away draws the half-formed scabs with it, where the seeping from the wounds has started to bond into the fabric. The grip holding him in place is firm, though, and he doesn't draw away, watching as the vampire flips the kit open one-handed with the assurance of long practice at doing this, seeking out a particular salve without even looking at it directly. This time, when broad fingers caress the underside of his wrist, they bring blessed _numbness_ with them. Estininen's breathing starts to slow, not even having been aware until then that it had sped up with pain. Once it seems he'll stay still, Aymeric pulls away to add a second cream of some sort, then properly covers and bandages the wound with sure hands. He'd always had a surprisingly deft hand for this sort of thing when they'd been young knights, but the degree of ease he shows now draws those nagging thoughts again about how much he's been practicing lately.

Estinien licks at dry lips, then asks, hesitantly, not wanting to say thank you but to show gratitude in the way he once would have, "I can treat your wounds, if you'd like. Or…" _By the_ ** _fury_** _, I hate this._ "Is it true that feeding helps heal your kind?" Which is _not_ meant to imply he wants the man's teeth in him again, it's just… part of him feels that the reason the fight wasn't over faster and more decisively is that Aymeric's been holding himself back out of some strange remnant of friendship or respect, instead of acting the way that he expects a vampire to.

He glances back up to find Aymeric watching him intently, the arctic ice of his eyes glittering strangely in the firelight. "Not twice in one night, so soon. If you still feel the same way tomorrow, we can discuss it then. For now, if you will, you may assist with treatment." Feeling irrationally awkward, the dragon-blooded nods and moves to assist as best he can without moving the injured wrist too much, unlatching armor and setting it aside on a stand he's found has been moved into the room while they were out. Another thing he tries not to let his mind dwell on too much. Once Aymeric is down to his undertunic and pants, he steps back to let the man remove the top at least, wincing a bit when his doing so reveals a colorful pattern of bruising mottled over ribs and back, definitely not all from the fight earlier in the night, and a latticework of scars far more extensive than the one that existed in his memory.

Unsure what to say, Estinien finally settles on, "I'll get the spot on your shoulder that broke open." He busies himself in the motions of first aid; cleaning, salving, covering with fresh cloth and bandage, and tries not to look too closely at anything else around it, or let his fingers linger too long on any spot. Only once he's done does he hesitate. "You need a full soak in bruise treatment, but I think you knew that already." He gets a rather unconcerned shrug in response, drawing a frown to his lips, and he moves his gaze, seeking out more scrapes from the interior of mail struck too hard, starting to address each in turn. "So being a fool about treating your injuries hasn't changed, then? If you won't tonight, you should tomorrow." On some levels, he's not sure why he's even concerned over his captor's wounds, but too much of what he's seen tonight has been an echo of the real person under the savage veil, enhancing that disconcerting feeling like he's seeing through a warped mirror.

Soon enough, the act of first aid is finished, and Estinien settles back, starting to clean his hands with a bit of spare bandaging. Aymeric recovers his shirt and slips it back on, nodding to the armor. "I'll send someone to get that out of your space, and bring you means again to store your own. You didn't need to bother." His weight shifts, and he regards Estinien with hooded eyes, making his expression harder to read. "After this, you may go anywhere in the house you wish, but do be aware that you may not always enjoy what you find if you venture into my more personal areas. That includes the gardens and courtyards, since I've been told you spend a great deal of time moping at the windows." 

He _knows_ he shouldn't give in to the jibe, but the scowl curls at his lips anyway. He most certainly was not _moping_ , just testing the limits of his magical bindings. "How _kind_ of you, _my Lord._ " Sarcasm seeps through his words as he pushes back, withdrawing physically as well, arms crossing over his chest, trying to regain distance and the idea that he doesn't care about his captor's health or safety at all. Aymeric stares back, and there's the slightest frustrated twitch of a muscle in his jaw before he stalks out of the room and Estinien is left alone. Well. Temporarily, alone.

Not willing to wait for the servants to get rid of the armor Aymeric left to get rid of the damnable _baubles_ he had to wear, he starts unhinging and throwing pieces onto the bed, not caring when one of the arm cuffs bounces off and rolls across the floor to lie beneath the dresser. Gauntlets and greaves follow, thumping down onto the mattress in muffled impacts. The door creaks behind him while he's unlatching the chest piece and he pauses to stare pointedly at the man who quickly scurries in to retrieve the stand holding the abandoned gear the vampire left behind, then bring in an empty one. As soon as he's gone, Estinien finishes tearing off the rest of his armor; it does not hold the old pride when he has to be given _permission_ to wear it. He drapes the pieces onto the stand, mostly so he won't have to deal with complaints later, and then stalks off through the house to retrieve his own choice in meal before he sleeps, as compensation for the night. 

((-----))

When he wakes near sunset the next evening -- no point in trying to follow the old sort of schedule anymore, after all -- he pointedly ignores the armor and jewelry, digging through his _provided wardrobe_ for the simplest thing he can find. Which turns out to be a pale grey shirt of some ridiculously fine linen, embroidered on the cuffs, and thank what deities remain, a simple enough pair of black trousers. At least there's no way to make socks fancy. Or so he thinks until he pulls on the first dark pair he locates, and realizes just how much softer and precisely shaped they are then he's used to. Throwing his hands up in disgust, Estinien stalks from his room, and in search of breakfast, then the bathing chamber after.

It occurs to him partway through soaking that he'd told Aymeric to do the same, and he rapidly finishes the bath in a half-panic at the idea the idiot _vampire_ might have assumed that was an invitation or worse. Redressed, he takes advantage of his increased supposed freedom, starting to reassess the house, from the bottom up. The cellars haven't changed much, at least, nor the kitchen. Nor the tendency of the kitchen help to lecture and despair at him wandering in and helping himself to anything that looks good. What was once the less formal, more intimate dining room now looks at first glance, more like a sitting room. Then, slowly, the intent of the covered over windows, the fainting couch, the heavy but still movable screen, starts to crystallize into something clearer. For a long while, Estinien stands in the door, partially horrified, and in part trying to imagine Aymeric using this chamber to bring his… What would he call them? Prey? Victims? _Meals?_ The images his mind can conjure up of the lord sitting on the couch next to some helpless thrall, or standing behind it looming over them before biting, are far more vivid than he wants to admit, and he finally tears himself away. 

Blessedly, the main dining room is normal, as is the parlor. He's moving as much on instinct as thought by now, and opens the next closed door before he's fully realized which it is. Specifically, that it's the door to the former library, that Aymeric has used for years as a private office. Worse, the man in question is _inside of it_ , seated at his desk, one hand shoved into his hair to prop up his head as he leans over an open book. Irrationally, worry creases the vampire's brow, and the overall mien is familiar in a way that tugs uncomfortably low in Estinien's belly like an anchor dragging down on his stomach.

At the creak of opening hinges, the vampire's eyes have lifted from the page, and the dragon-blooded finds himself holding overly still, like a rabbit in the gaze of a snake. As soon as he recognizes what he's doing, he forces himself to move slightly, to lean against the door frame as casually as he can manage. "Sorry. Didn't realize you were _here_. I'll get out of your way, _Lord._ " He knows that harping on the differences in their station was ever an effective goad to Aymeric's temper, but with how restless and frustrated he feels, suppressing the urge to turn it outward is far beyond him.

Briefly, he thinks he succeeded, too, as Aymeric's brow creases a little more. Then it smooths out again and, internally, he sighs in exasperation. The man was too damn patient _before_ he became an unholy blood-drinker, is it really fair he continues to be able to suppress his temper after? So he cheats. Even as the dark-haired man is opening his mouth to respond, he leans a bit more firmly, stretching his throat out a little so he can lean the side of his head on the doorframe. Even before the first word comes out, the vampire stumbles slightly over what he means to say, eyes gone fixed. "You are-" The slightest of pauses. "Not required to leave, if you desire to stay. Or were you coming to reiterate your offer last night before sleep that I feed from you again to heal myself? If you were so very eager for that, you could have sent a servant to find me, you know."

The taunt lands home, and Estinien jerks into an upright stance again, hands balling into fists at his side. He's aware that his voice is a low, angry growl now, snarling, "I am not _eager_ to have anything to do with you or your damned _mouth_ , Lord. I merely thought that if you had taken some injury because of attempting to preserve my dignity, it would have been the _noble_ thing to do to try and fix it. I suppose being a noble now just means you literally eat the peasantry though, doesn't it?" There's a small nagging sensation in the back of his head that usually shows up when he's letting his emotions get ahead of his common sense. He doesn't pay any attention to it. He usually doesn't.

A frisson of malicious glee runs through him when Aymeric's hands visibly clench this time and the vampire very carefully sets the book down on his desk, his eyes gleaming levin-bright blue as he stares across the room. It only spurs Estinien on. If he doesn't have any other control here, at least he can continue to get under the vampire lord's skin. "And you don't like that, do you? Saw yourself as fair and just, after all, and now… Well, I have to say, I haven't seen any of your _new kind_ yet who aren't either noble or have risen so high in the church or military they might as well be. You can't even _pretend_ to be like everyone else anymore." 

Almost instantly, he knows that was a mistake, because that faint throbbing spot deep within suddenly **_burns_** as Aymeric stands up, squaring his shoulders, jaw tensed. His voice is lower than usual, gone heavy and thick with the same bitter anger that had just been spat at him. "Do you think you want to see me _not pretending anymore_ , Estinien?" Even without a command being spoken, he finds that once again, his words are locked away, and his body unresponsive to his own demands as he finds himself stepping fully into the room, closing the door in his wake, and flipping the bolt. Trapped in the web of Aymeric's will, the only thing he can do is feel the panicked racing of his heart, nostrils flaring as the other man comes closer. So he waits.

Once almost toe to toe with the minutely taller man, Aymeric catches his gaze with his own, and the anger and resentment shine forth like falling stars, burning up the skies of his spirit. Like Estinien himself, he turns it outwards when there is nothing left inside to keep tearing apart, and the silver-haired man feels a cool hand of white-gold draw his chin higher, brush his hair back and behind his shoulders. As if to show how much control he has, the vampire takes his time, straightening Estinien's shirt, tracing sword-callused fingertips along the line of his jaw, then up to briefly ghost along one ear. Aymeric's voice fills his world again, low and rich in thought. "I wonder how long it will take until you're willing to wear the cuff for me without compulsion." He draws his hand back, laying it flat against his bond-servant's chest, lips curling into a slow, predatory smile at the racing heartbeat found there. "For now, consider this your _lesson_ in just how much I am not like _everyone else_ anymore, and why you need to be smarter about who you antagonize. I will keep warning you as long as I must."

Aymeric is leaning in, and this time, rather than just swiftly biting and feeding, he drags lips along the length of Estinien's pulse, a shockingly intimate touch, followed by a flicker of tongue tasting the sweat on his skin. "I claimed you. You are _mine_ now. You don't get to do things to put yourself at risk without my input." There's another slow drag of tongue, and Estinien doesn't know if his skin is crawling or rising in excited goosebumps, and he can't _move_ , can't do anything as a hand brutally fists into his hair and draws him back into a sharp and back-aching arch, throat bared and stretched, and this time, the bite isn't at all subtle or slow. Aymeric's teeth sink in, deeply, and something _pulls_ , and the blood is flowing, and everything becomes a wash of chaotic crimson-tinged pleasure and pain, til he finds himself panting for air and sickeningly grateful for the lock on his tongue that keeps him from pleading.

Worse, _it doesn't stop_. All too rapidly, Estinien is realizing just how restrained Aymeric had been the last time, because the longer it goes on, the more he wants to scream or moan, grab the other man to pull him nearer or shove him away, do something, _anything_ , _make it stop, make it keep going, make…_ The pressure suddenly lessens a little, letting the thoughts scattered like by a whirlwind start to coalesce, and he recognizes that Aymeric's fangs are pulling out. Warm lips press a lingering kiss over the still bleeding marks, leading to the distant realization that they're probably warmer now _because_ of that bleeding, because his power and self is Aymeric's now, and -- rapidly, he tears his mind back from the brink of that thought, focuses instead on the sensation of the hand slowly untangling from his hair.

He's not sure how long it takes to pull himself out of the half-dazed state, but by the time he realizes he _can_ move again, Amyeric's hands are straightening his shirt, then one wipes a bit of trickling blood off of his neck. Estinien stares as the vampire delicately licks the finger clean, giving him a very feline smile. "You might be a bit light-headed, after that. Should I have the kitchens bring you some food, or send it to your room?" The bastard is _smug_ about it, pleased with himself, and there's nothing to say in response that won't encourage him. Quickly, he tries to turn and stalk out, making it through unbolting the door before he sways, feeling almost drunk on blood-loss and magic, or pheromones, or whatever the _seven hells it is_ that vampires do to make the biting feel _like that_.

Then Aymeric's hand is on his waist, steadying him, and he has the gall to look mildly apologetic as he guides Estinien over to a chair and pushes him down into it. "Ah. Perhaps I should have known it would affect you more strongly, given the power of the bond. I will have something brought here. Just relax." _Just relax_ , as if the damned man wasn't _eating him_ not five minutes ago, and the irony that after that all that unbending control and demand the vampire is now, however mildly, _fretting over him_ is enough that Estinien buries his face in his hands, laughing almost hysterically as Aymeric gives him a concerned look and steps out to summon the staff.

By the time the vampire returns, servant in tow, he's recovered himself enough to be leaning back in the chair and has clapped one hand to cover the bite marks on his neck, letting his mind finally tangle with the question of the parts of what just happened that _weren't_ being bitten or magically immobilized. He keeps watch over the vampire as the servant settles a tray of food onto a nearby side table, as well as a pot of tea. Honestly, he'd have preferred something alcoholic, but the odds that he could get away with demanding that after being drained of blood seem distressingly low.

As soon as the set up is finished, Aymeric retrieves the bowl of stew and shoves it into his hands, along with the spoon. Predictably, it's mostly broth and meat, which tends to be what healers have always pushed on those with blood loss around here. Of _course_ they're using the same thing to "restore" those vampires feed upon. He digs into the food, managing a few bites before just how close Aymeric is _hovering_ becomes too distracting and he looks up through his bangs, glaring. "Do you have to do that? Sometimes I can't tell which of you I'm dealing with, and either one tends to get too much into my personal space."

The vampire lordling does step back a little at that, sinking into the next nearest chair. "Which of me… Oh." He frowns a little, leaning his elbows on spread knees and interweaving hands under his chin as he leans forward, watching Estinien with what is still rather discomforting intentness. "Do you remember the story from our training about the sword of your ancestors?"

Swiping the back of one hand across his mouth, the dragon-blooded nods a little, pausing in his consumption. "You have a sword that belongs to your ancestors, so it's a big matter of pride. But see, at some point, it got a new sheath, and a new blade, and someone redesigned the pommel, and so on. The whole point was that tradition mattered more than fact and to stop being fury-damned idiots and repair your weapons, even if they're heirlooms." He starts to collect another spoonful of stew, then looks up again, blinking. "You think you're the sword?"

A brief wash of tiredness over Aymeric's face as he nods. "My body is changed. My very self was changed. Yet I still remember the same things. I still have the feelings I did before that happened. The 'tradition' of me, if you'll forgive the sentimentality, should indeed be very much that which you remember… But you don't know the shape of the new blade I've become and so you handle it unwisely."

Estinien frowns, settling the bowl on one knee, a hand keeping it balanced as he turns this notion over in his mind. It's easier, a little, in the moments he can pretend that his captor and his dearest friend are two different people. It's also lonelier, and he's all too aware that much of him on some level craves the idea of warmth and closeness again, of being able to trust someone. Trusting someone who magically controls you and drinks your blood seems foolishness of the greatest possible magnitude, an act only of the terminally unwise or desperate. And yet… even earlier tonight, with cruelty shining like a knife's edge, he saw control and care. He saw _Aymeric_. Eventually, he says softly, "Grant me the time it takes to eat to think. You were busy enough when I came in."

He's not sure that the other man will listen, but he does, returning to his desk and his book and giving Estinien leave and silence to argue with the twisting winds of his own mind as he eats, then simply curls up in the chair, watching the fire and focusing on the conversation and the past few days, rather than the question of why he doesn't simply retreat to his own room. Blessedly, the silence continues as he tucks his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, until however long later, he clears his throat. Aymeric looks up from whatever he's been reading all this while, gaze steady and cool. "I acknowledge your point. I will try to think of you as yourself, just… changed by things I was not there for, this time." He can see the subtle softening to Aymeric's features, and it brings on a fresh wave of quiet hurt, more complicated than the simple anger or hatred he has wanted to let himself feel.

"Thank you." There's a moment when he thinks Aymeric might say more, but he does not. After a few breaths, Estinien awkwardly nods his head, and slips out of the room. 

((-----))

The next day -- night? he's never sure what term to use, anymore -- Estinien finds himself left to his own devices. After completing his aborted retour of the house, he concludes that Aymeric must be out; both that his quarters are locked and his own instincts suggest it as the most likely outcome. In the end, he takes the opportunity to start to practice with his lance again; he found it stowed near the courtyard where he knows the lordling usually works his forms. Wearing his armor feels strange now, and the more so because he _still_ can't find the damn helm; every servant he's asked just looks at him as if he's an idiot for asking, and if it's in any room other than Aymeric's, his attempts to locate it without actually tearing the house apart have ended in empty hands. 

He goes through the basic exercises, then the more advanced, finally dueling imaginary opponents until his aching muscle and the sweat running thick tracks down his skin under his armor despite the Coerthan chill finally forces him to accept that it's past time to take a rest. Pleasantly exhausted, he returns lance and armor to their respective locations and takes the time to wash. On his own, when traveling, he rarely found the bother worth the time, but he knows that Aymeric has _opinions_ on the matter, and if he's trying to be at least… sociable with his captor and friend, giving in to his preferences on such a small matter is probably with the sacrifice.

He's not sure why he walks past the kitchen and dining areas on his way back to the stairs. There's not any reason to, if he actually thought about it, but some mindless instinct drew him that way. Hunger, perhaps? A faint murmur of voices is audible from the smaller dining chamber and he slows his pace, still wearing only stockings after his shower which lends his steps further quiet. He's quick to pick out Aymeric's familiar cadence, especially when it's weighted with the formality of public spaces. Which is a curious thing, in his own household. Edging towards the door, knowing he's being rude and not caring, Estinien finds a spot in the shadows where he can glance through without being seen and can still hear.

The expected part of the picture is Aymeric, clad in a nobleman's frippery, settled on the couch. Which he supposes makes the noble _woman_ not all that surprising either, although he hasn't a damned clue who she is, other than simpering and brunette. Scowling, he shifts his weight onto one hip, out-thrusting it slightly, and watches the polite dance of conversation and proffering of tea. He may not be as adept at social matters as some, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out the woman is exceptionally hopeful she'll convince Aymeric to take liberties… and equally clear to him that the dark-haired man has no intentions of it, and that he even seems to be slightly uncomfortable with the whole situation.

Eyes narrowed, he tunes out the mind-numbing conversation, until things proceed until he assumed they must; the twit pressing herself to Aymeric's chest, and the vampire lowering his head, just so, and then biting down, delicately. From this angle, it looks nothing like what he's been familiar with. One of Aymeric's hands is clenched around the hem of his shirt, as if to hold it away, while the one on the woman's back is barely even touching her. Estinien isn't sure what to make of the fact that he's been held and touched far more intimately when drunk from, and even less sure what to do when he realizes the sudden thrum of heat that sings through his body is _jealousy_. Shaken, he turns and rapidly flees for his room, missing the lift of eyes in his wake that squint towards the doorway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions, dinner, and dalliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is all too often the case, for her infinite patience and letting me bounce things off of her, my thanks to Shoutz who is very nearly an unofficial beta for this mess by now.

Sleep is a struggle after that, and Estinien wakes while it is still late afternoon by the chronometer. The restless energy carried over from the night before has him determined to try once more to shed some degree of his tension through physical exertion. He dons his armor and glances to the window, finding that he has missed most of a rare clear day — the lowered sun slanting rays of light as thick and golden as treacle. Definitely a day worth practicing outside.

He detours through the kitchen long enough to grab a freshly baked muffin, which is gone by the time he gets to the open courtyard. If nothing else, Aymeric still keeps excellent cooks on staff. Settling into the rhythms of familiar exercises, he lets worry and thought drift away under the focusing haze of exertion. All too soon, the lovely haze of light dims into the gloaming of twilight, and finally the languid, pale glow of a waxing moon. As full dark settles, he feels a brief twinge of soft warmth in his healing scar and he stops moving, turning toward the doorway.

Sure enough, Aymeric is there watching him, clad not in armor but a fur lined coat over tunic and pants. Aware that he's been noticed, he clears his throat, walking closer. "You must be healing well. You show no hesitation in swinging your lance."

Self-conscious, Estinien clenches the hand where his gauntlet hides the scabbed over and increasingly shallow burns from Charibert's fingers. "Yes. The salve from your kit does seem to be working well." Frowning for a second, he gives in to curiosity; if this is supposed to be truly Aymeric, he's going to ask what he would before the transformation. "How often was Thordan allowing Charibert to torture you before the decision was made it was simpler to recreate you as a vampire?"

He knows the answer is bad when Aymeric takes too long to answer. When he does, his voice is dull and studied, like he is merely reciting a well-known and boring statistic. "I decided fairly quickly that it was a better choice not to keep track. Even before his new nature, my father had always believed me to be lacking in the sort of ruthlessness he believes necessary."

Guiltily, Estinien feels a little more of his reserve thaw. He had hoped, believed, that when he left, Aymeric's connection to Thordan would have kept him safe. Instead, it appears to have done the opposite. "So if he couldn't break your spirit that way, he decided to make you like him. Why was he so sure that would work?" It's the other half to the question that's been gnawing at the edges of his mind; he won't say it openly, but as near as he can tell, it may not have broken Aymeric but it unquestionably reforged him.

The vampire avoids answering for so long that he has begun to think that there will be no reasons forthcoming. Then Aymeric nods towards a stone bench beside a long drained fountain. "This will be easier if I don't have to look you in the face when I admit to it all." His skin has gone wan, gaze hollowed and haunted, and where that faint warmth had been under his ribs before is now a heavy, cold weight, like there's been a lump of chilled lead shoved into the scar. Rather than saying anything or nodding, Estinien simply heads for the indicated spot, pausing to carefully lean his lance against the empty fountain. It's not like he could use it against Aymeric anyway, and even if it wasn't for the bond, if he was being strictly honest, he's not sure he could anyway, not with any true intent to cause harm.

Shoulders hunched, Aymeric settles at the very end of the bench, so much so he can't even sit in his usual confident sprawl. The entire effect induces a contrary protective instinct in the dragon-blooded, which may manage to be the strangest thing that's happened this week. Even not facing him, with a comfortable gap of a fulm, it takes time for Aymeric to speak.

"I know the Bonding was not the most pleasant experience for you. Unfortunately, it's still far more pleasant than making a vampire. You're drained of blood, as far as they can get you without killing you. Which happens anyway sometimes. The manner varies too… If they want it easier, enough of them feed on you that the pheromone haze lessens the pain. If it's meant to be hard, well, there's a lot of ways to bleed someone out, and most of them enjoy hurting people." The entire time he speaks, Aymeric stares intently at the ground between his boots, hands gripped hard enough on the edge of the bench to turn the knuckles white. "Given his frustration at my refusal to accept his views, it was not easy. When I was weak enough, they made me feed on them, until enough corruption entered that my body absorbed it. After that--" Aymeric shifts his weight minutely, a faint cracking sound audible from the stone gripped in his hands. "It's like fire and acid in your veins, dissolving you from within, and when it ends, you feel nothing but hunger. Not awareness of what you're doing, of what precautions you need to take, just… that you need blood."

The implications are already terrible, and Estinien is very careful not to look directly at Aymeric, aware it's only going to make the telling worse for him, but he finds himself unable to resist the draw to _know_ how he's being affected. The glimpses he can catch from the periphery of his eyes are bad enough, sculpture-perfect features that should be cast in divine kindness or demonic cruelty instead a mask of anguish and self-hatred. "That's why people still disappear in the Brume, you know. A new vampire invariably kills their prey for the first few times. And the more you fight against what you've become, the longer it takes to learn control. Weeks, even. I still don't know--" Aymeric cuts himself off, hands unknotting, shoving into his hair, hiding away his face from even Estinien's sidelong gaze. He says nothing more, but he doesn't have to. The dragon-blooded knows; this is what damaged him so much, even more than the new instincts. Losing his precious self-control and doing so in a way where he not only harmed others, but killed, helpless to resist it.

Touch barely any heavier than the brush of a feather, the dragon-blooded reaches to lay a hand against the nearer of Aymeric's biceps. Compassion and kind words has never been his forte, but sometimes, there is a kindness in bluntness. "You can't expect your stubbornness to change everything in the world. If that's what always happens, you are not at fault. How many have you killed since learning to control yourself?"

There's a minute shake of a dark-haired head, wisps of back shaking with the motion like funereal smoke in the wind. "None. But I am different, and I know it. You comment on it too. Ever and always, Estinien, cost and consequences. Cruelty is easier. I _enjoyed_ beating Janelenoux, you know. I even enjoyed hurting you, bending you to my will. I am still myself in that I know I should not but that doesn't change that I still feel it." Fire and ice war in Estinien's core, his own and the reflections through the bond, and he can't sort one apart from the other.

Part of him wants to withdraw from even the very slight touch connecting them, but he _knows_ , as deep as instinct, that pulling away now may break the man next to him in a way he'll always regret. Quiet for too long, the heavy weight of guilt ever growing, he finally finds words, asking gruffly, "Do you remember when you broke my arm sparring?"

It may seem a non sequitur, but there is a point, as Aymeric finally pulls the hands away from his face enough to look towards his companion slightly. "Of course. I apologized, many times, but that was long before--"

Estinien cuts him off. "Yes, you mewled and fretted like a milksop for moons, as if it wasn't one of those things that happen. My point, however, is that I need you to think back to how you felt when you actually broke it, not after. What did you feel?"

He can see the puzzlement in Aymeric's eyes, and the first response is the expected one, "Terrible, I should have had more control over what I was doing."

A roll of the silver-haired man's eyes. "That's still after. The _moment it happened_ , when you were full of adrenaline and enjoying the fight."

Aymeric's frown slowly deeepens, and Estinien waits, trying to be patient. After a long pause, the other man says thoughtfully, "In the exact moment, I remember being excited, proud. I hadn't realized yet how much damage I'd done, and all I was thinking was how thrilled I was to be able to overpower you for once."

The sense of interminable _weight_ is fading a little, and Estinien gives a small nod, stretching his legs out. "Enjoying winning and hurting people isn't actually a change, Aymeric. You just got worse at hiding it from yourself. Despite that, you still hold on enough. You still have control. Have a little self-mercy, for once in your benighted life." ~~~~

((----))

The next night, a servant wakes Estinien knocking at the door, which is a new experience. He opens the door to his chamber with a scowl, which the calm-faced older man seems utterly unimpressed by. "The lord has received an invitation to a dinner party tonight that he feels he must attend. You are to accompany him, which means on your best behavior and best appearance. The bathing chambers are already prepared for you, and a maid will be by after to do your hair." He bows and turns to leave, adding, "I will lay your outfit out while you're bathing."

Estinien pauses, still confused, then yells after, "A maid is going to _do what_?" To his immense frustration, there's no answer and the man disappears around the corner. Cursing in a colorful stream, he grabs a robe and stalks towards the bath. True to the servant's word, a bath is drawn already, full of something -- he'll be damned if he knows what, what's wrong with plain _water_? -- ridiculously fragrant. There's even specific soap and bottles of hair care. Groaning wearily, he climbs in, soaks, then washes -- body _and_ hair, thank you, with the same damn bar of soap. After toweling off, the silver-haired man looks at the array of oils and hair pomades and other ridiculous things on the counter and snorts. Instead, he just grabs the comb, dragging it through his hair til it falls smoothly and without tangles. _What more could hair need?_

The clothes laid out in his room are expected and dreaded. Silk and velvet, all in Borel blue and black and the same set of dragon-relic jewelry he wore to court. Along with the ear cuff, of course, which seems to show no real purpose but to further mark Aymeric's territory. Estinien is just grateful that he's had to endure enough formal events before that he understands how all the pieces are meant to be worn and layered by now, even if he grimaces at the glimpse of himself he catches in the small glass over the wardrobe. With his hair sleeked down and in all the finery, gold at his neck and limbs, crystal swinging from his ear, he looks to fit in with all the twits and fops and power-mongering murderers he'll have to spend time with. 

The door opens with no knock this time, which is worse because it is indeed the promised maid who sweeps in, even if she's old enough to have been his mother. Crossing his arms over his chest, before she even speaks, Estinien barks, "I don't need my damn hair gussied up. You can take off." 

The maid crosses her arms in return, looking at him levelly. "Lord's orders, and he pays me, not you. Sit down on the stool." The staring match goes on for a solid minute or more, but in the end, the realization that if this really matters to Aymeric, he can show up here and force it, and that's going to be even _more_ humiliating decides Estinien's mind. With a huff, he all but slams himself down onto the indicated seat and proceeds to endure what seems like an entire damn bell's worth of forced primping. The end result is the river of his hair twisted and confined into some sort of intricate plait that is going to be a nightmare to undo, and somehow arranged so it consistently falls over the shoulder opposite the ear cuff.

"There, you ought to pass muster. I'll let the Lord know you're good enough." The maid scolds, and leaves him to glare after her and wait. _Good enough, my whole arse_. He paces back and forth in the interim, his hands itching for his lance. Or a sword. He'd settle for a dagger! As happened before, he feels the sense of closeness a moment before Aymeric appears in the doorway, one hand briefly pressing to his side. The Lord de Borel is in matching blue and black, although his is trimmed and embroidered in enough gold thread to almost resemble his armor and the jewelry is far simpler; his usual aquamarine earring and cuff and a few rings. Sharp blizzard rimed eyes catch his gesture and the raven-coiffed man smiles. "I wondered how long it would take afore you noticed you can sense my presence. It has been entertaining to watch you drawn to me without knowing." 

Estinien just stares for a long moment, several things becoming clearer in his memory with this element added to hindsight. "Have I mentioned that you're an even bigger bastard since becoming a vampire, Borel? At some point we need to actually _talk_ about everything this bond does." Despite the words, there's relatively little true venom in them. In many ways, this sort of underhanded, gentle chicanery is very in line with the Aymeric de Borel he knew before, and if it's sharpened in aspect since then, well, they've had that discussion already.

"At some point." Aymeric agrees good-naturedly, seeming to be in a relatively positive mood for the moment. The lord offers him his arm and, feeling uncomfortably like a maiden being courted, Estinien takes it to let him lead the way out of the manor and to their destination. Which turns out to be Manor Dzemael; of _course_ they'd turn out to be cozy with the new order in Ishgard. Estinien can't even be surprised. 

After the dance of entry, presenting invitations, coats being taken and hung up, moving through the household, they end up in a predictably lavish and large dining room. In truth, Estinien is relieved to see the table set for a typical formal dinner, with enough seats to accommodate everyone in the room. For now, guests mill about talking, and he can pick out a mix of human nobles, vampires, and other bonded. The latter are clustered near the side of the room, and he recognizes Janlenoux's dark eyed young man and an older woman who taught some of his earliest lessons in lancework. The other two are not familiar to him, which he suspects means they weren't considered overly powerful. After Aymeric greets their hosts, and he's scrutinized, greeted, and attempts to keep himself civil, he flees for the others the first chance he gets.

Old habits are hard to break, and he finds himself sweeping into a trainee's bow before Mistress Eurelt. "I did not expect to encounter you here. Have you been…" Estinien pauses, and realizes he has no idea how to ask politely ' _How long have you been a vampire's plaything?'_. 

He begins to realize something is off as she reaches her hands out to clasp both of his, eyes alright over a cheek scarred sometime since he last saw her with a burning fervor. "Young Wyrmblood! You were such a promising student, if you ever got that attitude under control. And here you are, returned to Halone's merciful bosom at the hands of his chosen ones! What wonderful luck! Please, call me Finia, though. I am of the Blessed Grinnaux's household now." Estinien's world suddenly tilts horrifyingly off kilter and he remembers how she'd always start lessons with prayer. Eurelt had always been a devout woman, but still, he didn't expect _this_. Halone's _chosen ones?_ The _blessed_ Grinnaux? The very notion is somewhere well past horrifying and into nauseating.

Swallowing heavily as he wrestles emotions back under control, hoping only that nothing shows on his face, Estinien manages a wan smile, desperately holding to his reminders about good behavior. "My return to Ishgard was certainly a shock to me, and I am still unfamiliar with all the new rules of etiquette. Forgive me." The other woman, out of line of sight of Finia is looking at him with pity, and he asks, struggling for politeness, "Will you introduce me to your companions?"

As it turns out, the pretty boy who's given him the handkerchief is Leomond, while the other two are Isauroix and Ophelie, both with the _Blessed_ Ignasse. At first, Estinien is rather unsure why he still warranted a last name, until he realizes the difference lies in that Aymeric, despite his relationship to Thordan, doesn't belong to the Ward, and is, therefore, clearly a lesser power here. The ensuing conversation is dominated by Finia, who clearly is well aware that as being attached to the vampire with the highest standing transfers to her. She's well into a rhapsodic lecture about theology when a clink of silverware against glass precedes an announcement by the Lord de Dzemael, that "Dinner will be arriving shortly. Please, my friends, join us at the table."

People begin to drift to the table at the lord's announcement, reading place cards and claiming places. There must be some new rules of etiquette now, and the ones in regards to the placement of lords and vampires are frankly beyond his capacity to deduce. It doesn't take much to work out that each of the bonded is seated at the left hand of the vampire they serve, however; Finia with Grinnaux -- and how she's so happy with _him_ is a question Estinien hopes he never has to hear answered, Leomond with Janlenoux, and Isauroix and Ophelie both with their former dragoon. One of the rare few to seriously pursue that path without significant draconic heritage, though. There's something different in the settings as well, depending on the class of person sitting there. Each vampire has a small goblet of copper, the kind that used to be used for cordials and as a servant begins to circulate and pour a thick red liquid into each Estinien's blood runs cold. Which is probably the same temperature as the blood in the glasses, at that. 

Most of the rest of the food is blessedly normal, even if it's clear the vampires among the company present eat significantly less than those of a more typical constitution. It's only after the third round of servant bearing the blood that he catches the subtle waft of alcohol and herbs off of it and realizes that it's a bloody _cocktail_ of some sort, which explains why Amyeric's cheeks have been gaining a subtle pink haze and he's started feeling a faint touch of warmth in his fancy clothes. Frowning, he keeps half an eye on his companion; unless he's changed, Aymeric is one of those terrifying drunks who seem absolutely sober until they straight-facedly suggest or do something they never would normally. He can recall _quite_ well having to talk a young knight out of the idea of rolling around naked in the snow to cool down after they'd split most of several bottles of stolen wine a few months into their friendship.

Dinner drags on interminably, with rounds of drinks for the vampires and nobles, and by the time dessert arrives, Estinien is almost perished of boredom, other than the quality of the food. The only one of his cohort to bother to try and be included in the conversation is Finia, who even the nobles seem to eye with a certain wariness, and he takes his cue from Leomond and the other pair and strives just to keep his damned mouth shut and look pretty. Better not to draw attention and screw things up.

By the time the hour draws for people to begin filtering out, the time is well into the deepest traces of night, dawn only a few bells away. Whatever the mix in the vampiric drinks was, it's left Aymeric surprisingly mellow and a little unsteady on his feet, and Estinien finds to his exasperation that he has to brace the shorter man with a hand several times on the walk back to Manor Borel. The house is within sight when Aymeric lets out a long sigh and reaches to stroke fingertips over the braid draped across Estinien's shoulder. "All night, I've had to look at you, so beautiful like this, and behave. It's _unfair_." The silver-haired man goes very still at that comment, freezing in place, remembering the risk associated with the new Aymeric getting that petulant edge in his voice. It tends to show at the times when he's having trouble maintaining his usual self-control, like shortly after the initial bonding.

Keeping his voice carefully calm and relaxed, Estinien urges, "I'm sure it is. Come along home." He hooks a hand under Aymeric's elbow, giving it a light tug. The vampire moves closer to him, instead of towards the house, eyes still locked on Estinien's face and starting to gain an almost fevered edge. Taking a quick dancing step back, the dragon-blooded swallows, increasingly concerned at the single-minded focus he's seeing. Aymeric practically _slinks_ forward, and a pattern is set, Estinien just praying he reaches the manor before whatever foolish idea is in the Lord's head reaches fruition. 

Technically, they do. Yet the second they're within touching distance of the house's walls, and still far from the stairs and the door, Aymeric swings into motion, secure in his own territory, and a blue and gold clad arm suddenly blocks Estinien's path forward, palm flat against the bricks and impacting with an audible echo of sound. Turning to fully face the other man, Estinien's eyes narrow, frustration starting to show at being so near to his goal. "Whatever you want, it can wait a little longer, can't it?" 

Aymeric's head shakes, and he steps in again, til he has almost pinned Estinien to the wall. And yet, despite that, his other hand is terribly gentle when it comes up to touch that braid again, fingertips tracing the intricate patterns. "I can't see you with the stars in your eyes and the moon rivaling your hair in there. You're always at your most magnificent outdoors, starlight and ice made flesh." For a long few seconds, they just stare at one another, Aymeric's frosted blue made into flame's heart with intensity, while Estinien knows his own midnight is no doubt full of his current bewilderment.

After a moment, he mutters, regaining his irritated edge, "You're still drunk. And stupid with it." He turns, meaning to try and duck under the other man's arm, when Aymeric leans in heavily and Estinien tries to catch him, thinking he's tripped.

He realizes how wrong he is when the vampire's hand finds his cheek and draws his head down, Aymeric's voice low and thick as he concedes, "Still drunk, yes, but no stupider than I ever was, except in being unable to care if you know." Estinien expects to be bitten, and is bracing himself for a feeding made clumsy by a hazed mind. Instead, there's heat as Aymeric surges in to press lips to his in a hard, desperate kiss, like a drowning man trying to catch a thrown line to be towed back to shore. He hears a faint whimper from Aymeric's throat when his body begins to react before his mind has even caught on fully to what's happening, his lips parting as if in shocked welcome. Aymeric's tongue plunges in to claim him, bringing the taste of blood and brandy and bitter herbs. It should be repulsive, and instead, he's chasing it, trying to drink it down, breathing coming in a maddening rush through his nose as he reaches for Aymeric's waist.

How long does it last? For all the moment is searing into his memory, he thinks it is only a few heartbeats before his rook-plumed tormentor pulls away, slow and soft, and he is once more staring at a flushed face near his. There's still fire in Aymeric's eyes, but something else too, the drink having loosened some mad, prowling thing from its cage as the lord says quietly, "Now you can't possibly feign ignorance." Estinien means to form some protest, some question, but already, Aymeric is moving back, sliding from his grip, and moving to the door, his pace steady but fast. He finds himself too dazed to keep up as he stumbles after, one hand brushing briefly over his lips when he throws the door to the manor open and finds Aymeric already out of sight.

Briefly, Estinien hesitates, unsure, then he focuses on the draw in his belly that he's allowed to be unconscious til now, the instinctive _sense_ of where the other end of the bond rests. It's a strangely slower process when done deliberately, although he wonders if it could improve with practice. It's also not aware of rational navigation, as he realizes when he finds himself standing in Aymeric's empty office, staring up at the ceiling overhead. _Ah_. Borel has retreated to his own room. Estinien backtracks to the stairs and up, finding a door firmly closed when he reaches his destination.

For far longer than he cares to admit, the silver-haired man stands in his finery, staring at unresponsive carved wood. Most of him is just hoping Aymeric will emerge and everything will _make sense_ again when he explains.

It doesn't happen. Swallowing down every scrap of courage he has, Estinien lays his hand on the handle, barely touching it, meaning to test and see if it's locked.

Then his resolve cracks like the most delicate blown glass in his ungentle grasp and he does what has always been easiest when he struggles to understand what to feel: he flees. Back to his own room, his own bed, to the familiar darkness where he can hide and try and wrap his mind around too many staggering implications. Almost mechanically, he stripes away his finery, unclasps cuffs and necklace, changes into something simple and plain that won't encourage anyone to go insane and insist he's _beautiful_.

Dealing with the damned court was easier. No one there was telling him how _blessed_ he was to be owned and if they had a fanatic's facade, at least it wasn't directed at him. Beyond that, he _understands_ people being brutal in combat to show power. It makes sense. Whatever sort of standing or politicking went on tonight was far past his level of caring to understand. Lying on his back amid his ridiculously soft mattress and lavish sheets, Estinien absently toys with the dangling gem from the ear cuff until the sun rises beyond stone walls and emotional confusion and exhaustion bears him away into the shroud of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And of course, as is inevitably the case, love and adoration, thanks and exulations, to the [Book Club](https://discord.gg/b79ufBZ) for enabling all my best and worst impulses. Do stop by and join the thirsty, wholesome chaos.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidden dangers, of the body and the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love when I catch my groove on this one.
> 
> If the last scene is your fault, you know who you are.

When he wakes, Estinien wants to convince himself that the previous night was a dream, but given that his hair is still in the damned braid because he forgot to undo it before sleeping, he's pretty sure it was real. Still a bit groggy, he pulls off the ear cuff -- why did he _fall asleep_ in the damn thing, anyway? -- and starts to pick apart the strands of plaited hair. It takes a bit, but he gets it to the point where the rest can be pulled into at least the usual level of order with a few harsh yanks of a comb, tearing out only a few particularly badly knotted strands. Grimacing, he tosses the ribbon that had held it towards the dresser with the discarded jewelry and begins the depressingly familiar routine of trying to find something among the provided clothes that still feels halfway like the sort of thing he'd have gotten on his own. It's getting harder at that, because he swears they're _sneaking new clothes in with the laundry_ and not bringing back the original ones. 

In exasperation, he just decides to go with the first things he grabs, and if they match or not, who in the seven hells will care? Dressed and restored to something approaching his own normalcy, he stalks through the halls and down to the kitchen, feeling the bonding scar grow warmer as he nears, which is warning enough of who else will be there. Past the immediate uncertainty, however, he refuses to let himself be frightened away or cowed, to show any sign of weakness. Which means he is absolutely _not_ going to be kept from his breakfast.

Prepared for his refusal to wait by now, the cook waves him towards a covered try sitting on a side counter, which is, unfortunately, also waiting right by Aymeric, who is lounging leaning against the cabinets. He straightens when he spies Estinien, and for a moment, the terrifying possibility of a discussion about the night before comes to mind. Thankfully, it's averted when the vampire offers him the tray, murmuring, "I wanted to discuss my breakfast with you over yours, if you'll join me in the dining room." 

Well. That's something he knows how to handle, at least. Estinien manages a vaguely affirmatory grunt and takes the tray, leading the way to the smaller dining room and the table there. As he moves to dig into his own meal, he keeps half an eye on Aymeric, asking pointedly, "Guess getting drunk on whatever that mix was isn't the same as a real meal." Well, maybe _asking_ isn't quite right. He's been trying to needle the Lord de Borel a bit less, but there are limits to his self-control.

"No. Beyond that, I was fairly sure you would have been--" There is a very brief pause as Aymeric considers word choice, "Uncomfortable if I had availed myself of the more filling options at the house last night, so I chose to forgo such opportunities. However, I am under a certain familial expectation to spend time at the church with the pious in visitation and to grant ' _communion_ ' to maintain what my sire call community connections. I prefer not to, but I suspect I will soon be pressing the limits of his patience. The least I can do is make sure that I am as well fed as possible before I depart to do so, so that I have an excuse to minimize my contact." 

Even for Aymeric, the whole little speech was impressively avoidant in details, and it's not until he's had several bites more of his breakfast that the full impact sinks into Estinien's mind. "Wait. Thordan wants you to be out there randomly _feeding_ on people still stupid enough to turn to the church, and your solution is to try and have a full belly so you can leave faster? Are you fucking serious?" Judging by the glare he's getting across the table, Aymeric is both serious, and displeased with him for, probably, cursing at the breakfast table. As if that's the main problem here.

"You need to do better at keeping your manners in control. This isn't like it was before, when having a trained knight of low birth with a coarse tongue would be forgiven sometimes." The vampire's voice is quietly serious, and Estinien glares back for a moment, allowing that to show the entirety of _his_ opinion on such matters. "You do not have to accompany me. It may even be better if you do not. I can bring along another guard. What matters for now is whether I need to locate another willing meal before I do so or not."

Daunted, Estinien's mind flashes back to the last time he oversaw Aymeric in this room, with the anonymous noble. No, some part of him is _strongly_ against the idea of the man finding someone else to drink from and the only problem is that he doesn't want to have to admit to that. After a long pause, he sets his fork down, voice tight. "I don't understand all of the new social rules yet, but I'm pretty sure that keeping you provided with blood and making sure you're safe are considered important parts of what I am now. Or so my compatriots have led me to believe." His eyes finally lift, dark blue spearing across the table. "I have _never_ backed down from doing what was necessary to fulfil my duty. Drink and I'll come to the cathedral to watch your back, even if I'd rather not deal with people directly." The silver-haired man returns his focus to finishing his meal, muttering more quietly, "As if any other guard you'd get ahold of would be even half as good as I am."

"Your skill has never been in dispute in my eyes, Estinien." Aymeric vows softly, and that's enough to make his chest tighten for a moment. Pushing the plate away and standing, the dragon-blooded paces to his lord's side, looming over the vampire's still seated form. Feeling exceptionally awkward and refusing to show it, Estinien offers Aymeric a hand up -- see, he _can_ remember some social niceties -- and clears his throat gruffly once they're both upright and uncomfortably close together.

"Get it over with." Estinien's voice manages to stay steady, but it took a little concentration to ensure that fact, which makes him frustrated with himself. He tries to hold onto that anger as Aymeric gives him a look that is far too _intense_ for being so close, reaches to curl a hand around the silver-haired man's neck and draw him into easy reach. With some idea what to expect by now, Estinien braces himself with one hand on Aymeric's shoulder and one on his waist, trying not think how the pose mimics a couple dancing, and holds as still and patient as he can until he can feel soft breath and cool lips, the almost graceful way teeth slide into his vein with a millisecond of sharp pain before the comfort and pleasure floods through instead. No matter how brusquely he may have dismissed the process, it's too easy to let himself be pulled close, let a strong arm curl around his waist as a broad hand cradles his neck, and just lean slightly into the feeling of warmth and weakness that radiates out from the touch of lips and teeth on skin, let it cloud away the guilt and uncertainty in his mind. 

It's the first time it's been… he won't use the word _comfortable_ , but at least it is familiar, and easier, every time, and when the tight latch of fangs and lips is finally loosened and Aymeric straightens, still supporting him gently to see if he's light headed, it's all Estinien can do to blink for a second or two. Then he has a flash of insight as to when else he's felt that sort of dazed, relaxed aftermath and reality slams down rapidly. Quickly, he straightens, makes a ramrod of his spine, shoving away the feelings of calm and slight dizziness. "I'm _fine_ , stop fussing. If I'm to be a bodyguard, that means I can wear my armor, I assume."

Aymeric nods agreement, one of those damnably smug _knowing_ smiles on his lips, and Estinien is quick to take the opportunity to flee to change and collect his lance.

(-----)

Estinien _still_ wishes he knew what Aymeric did with his damn helm. Despite that, it feels better to be walking the streets in his mail and bearing his lance, a little closer to normal, or at least, perhaps, what is becoming a new normal. That fact doesn't make visiting the congregation any more comfortable, however, nor seeing the delusion and devotion in the eyes of the people as they approach Aymeric or the few other vampires there. If anything, it turns his stomach, and he hates watching the subtle hints of tension in the body of the man he accompanied here, at feeling his own unease doubled by the throb of nausea and discomfort that radiates out from the depths of his scarred side.

After a bell of waiting, it becomes more than he can bear, and Estinien retreats to the front antechamber, close enough he can hear or sense anything wrong, but where he won't have to _watch_ the discomforting fawning. He leans against an inner wall, trying to keep guard over both within and without in stolen glances, still trying to shake an increasing tension in his form. It might be the location and it may not be his own, but the hair at the back of his neck keeps rising, like there's something off. If he wasn't in the heart of the city, he'd have been looking around for a dragon flying overhead or perched in the distance. As it is, he just devolves into pacing the stone floors, boots ringing out a hail of echoes. 

Another bell passes and finally, finally, he feels Aymeric's presence come near. Estinien ceases his pacing, instinctively turning to face the entrance into the cathedral proper. Away from watching eyes, the Lord de Borel shows signs of tiredness, not of body, but of self, even as he's flushed and healthy looking, well fed, but with a haunted edge to his gaze, lips drawn too tight. "We're finished. Let's go home, I long for a little peace and quiet." Estinien is quick to nod, fall into step with him, as they begin the walk through the city's corridors to the manor.

They've just reached the base of the sweeping ramp down from the Tribunal when every one of Estinien's instincts snap awake like the eye of a great wyrm opening, power igniting in his bloodstream as he taps into the familiar depths of his drachen mail. Before he sees them, he's in motion, a blur of silver hair and black mail as his lance spins, knocking a rain of arrows from the air, body thrown between the enemy and Aymeric. He can hear the other man crying out something behind him, but it doesn't matter in that second; he's finally, gloriously _free_ to do what he wants to do anyway, to obey the wild calls of rage and protection, to fight and slay and keep the enemy from his _nest_ , from his _consort_. Later, after battle, when he's saner, he might question these thoughts, but right here, right now, it is nothing but sweet, pure instinct.

Estinien has _always_ been good at following his instincts, even in the long-ago shadows of his innocent youth. So he gives them their siren song, sallies forth in the brutal ballet of attack and defense. The use of a pillar to launch himself higher, to dive with all the force of aether splashing out like a rain of blood as he pierces through the archer's torso like an awl through soft leather, tearing the blade free to flash in a wide arc that intercepts and slices a line across a vulnerable throat. Three left. The men are quick and would normally be considered well-armed. Weak dragon blood? Something to ponder later.

He almost slips on a body where Aymeric's blade has laid another one open, a fool who thought that because he was allowed close enough for a dart and vicious swing of edged blue that it meant that guarded was the same as _helpless_. Estinien has no intent of letting another get so near. Moving, back to back with the bulk of Aymeric's form, he lets a wordless challenge rumble through his throat, half-growl and half-scream, the throws himself forward, jabbing and sweeping in elegant, unforgiving patterns that cut to bone and marrow, leave the would-be-assassins staggering and falling on the cobblestones, blood seeping uselessly out to run between the cracks. The final one means to run, turns, and Estinien lets all that speed, all that strength, all the gifts of his blood that he's been denied free rein to for too long sing through him in a howling ballad as he leaps for the sky and falls like a star, lance impaling the enemy and holding him upright towards the heavens. Slowly, the dragon-blooded straightens, breathing heavily, his gaze sweeping the area for any sign of another possible threat, of anything left standing other than Aymeric, still and shocked and spattered with the gore of those who brought their threat too near to him.

Only once he's sure that there is nothing more does he pull the lance free, wiping it clean on the corpse's clothing, then pacing back to pass it to Aymeric's hand. "I'm going to check the bodies." Now that the risk is past, it occurs to him that he probably should have left at least one alive to question, but in the moment, everything had been focused on their survival. Beyond that, honestly, he's never been very appreciative of the niceties of _interrogation_ , unlike some he could name. The intended killers are exceptionally, almost worrisomely bland, clothing unremarkable, plain features of elezen and hyur bodies blending in easily to a nighttime crowd. Their pockets are empty, other than gil and basic necessities like handkerchiefs, nothing to place a clear identity. The weapons… Their weapons are worrisome. The make is simple, but the quality is exceptional. More even than he'd expect from a pack of sell-swords, who usually go for the best they can get because their livelihood depends on it. Whoever these men were, they had been _funded_. Growling, he spins back, grabbing his lance and taking Aymeric's arm. "Move. We're going back to the Manor and summoning the city guards to clean up."

The true miracle is that in this situation, Aymeric actually listens to him. Makes it a great deal easier to be a bodyguard than it would have been otherwise. The only reason Estinien doesn't have them _run_ home is because it might attract more and more unfortunate attention than the moving more typically does. While the prickling along his spine has eased, he has no intention of relaxing yet, and even getting them through the doors of the house and firmly ensconced within only relaxes him slightly. He's checking the locks and bellowing for the staff to check the security before Aymeric can distract him too much, absentmindedly shoving at the vampire to try and keep him securely _behind_ him, so he can lie between him and any threat. 

In the end, it takes an actual _command_ from Aymeric to calm him. " _Estinien_. We are safe, there will be someone here to ask about it soon, and I need to check your injuries. Stand down." For a moment, he presses back against the impulse to listen mentally, but the words and the urge to obey sink in and a breath slowly hisses out before he relaxes. Injuries. In the heat of the moment, he'd largely ignored the possibility. Now, as Aymeric harries him to the front parlor. he starts to become aware of bruises and aches, where a few blows landed. That said, despite the fussing, the only wound of any real note is a long slice across the back of his left forearm, already clotting closed.

"They didn't expect you to have a very good guard, did they? Has this happened before?" Estinien tolerates having the cut cleaned and bandaged, largely just grateful that it was nothing that will hinder him for any length of time. He needs a bath after that, as does Aymeric, as both of them are marked by the gore of battle, but it will have to wait til they're questioned.

"Not with so many assailants, but between the court trying to fight one another for power, the Houses doing the same, the people of the country who don't approve of the new vampire elite, and more rarely, foreign interests trying to disrupt the city, well, attacks are far from unheard of. There is more than one reason why my kind prefers to bind yours to them, given that you can be as deadly as we are and then some. Who better to force to your side?" There's a surprising soft trace of bitterness in Aymeric's voice, but any hope of pursuing why is interrupted by a curt knocking at the door that heralds the arrival of city guards. 

Given his limited trust for anyone else, Estinien sticks to just answering the questions they ask, because given how _routine_ they and Aymeric are acting like this was, they won't do anything. How has Ishgard become so different in the shape of a single year? Well. Other than the obvious reasons. Quickly, the guard departs again, and the household goes quiet. Looking down at the state of his armor, the dragon-blooded warrior grimaces. "I need to go take this off and clean it, then myself. Given the state of your clothing, you should do the same. I can wait til you're out of the bath for mine."

He swears he can _feel_ the slow, challenging grin that starts to curl up Aymeric's lips. He can't, there's no way the bond is that sensitive, but sure enough, it's there when he looks back as the vampire starts to speak. "Or, if you're not afraid, we could simply save time and both bathe." Estinien stares back, dueling urges fighting within him. The problem is, the one that wants to panic and back off is having to go up against his ongoing intense protective urges _and_ his inability to back down from a challenge, which almost guarantees which side is coming out the victor.

After a few breath's pause, his eyes narrow in return, taking the bait. "Fine. Just behave yourself." If he's being utterly honest within his own head, Estinien might not even be able to name what _behaving yourself_ looks like in this scenario, but he's not going to give _no_ challenge back.

Upstairs, the silver-haired man strips off the armor outside the bathroom to pass it off to one of the servants, leaving him in the underlying base layers. Inside, he can hear another drawing the tub and grimaces, finally shoving his way in. To his surprise, it's simply Aymeric, who had gone ahead while he got rid of those layers that need rather different cleaning than a visit to the laundry. He's shed the heavier outer layers of his clothing, but still has the rest on, and the lord himself is the one filling the tub. For a moment, Estinien blinks, then he says gruffly, "And here I thought you paid people to do that sort of thing for you."

"I do what's considered proper for my position, so as not to cause issues. I am, however, aware of your own comfort levels." Aymeric says, calm and peaceful, which probably also explains why the water is relatively _plain_ for once, the only scent twisting through the air a touch of bracing camphor, probably meant to help with bruises. That's a lot more acceptable. Grunting in acknowledgement, Estinien drags his shirt off overhead, shameless in playing chicken with Aymeric, since this is his idea, using it to wipe most of the lingering blood off of his skin, except where it needs true scrubbing. He then tosses the shirt towards his dark-haired companion.

"You're more of a mess than me. Wipe down and I'll stop the water." As Aymeric catches the shirt, he straightens and moves away, doing as bid. Estinien doesn't _mean_ to watch as the lord pulls off his own shirt and cleans himself, but he finds the edges of his vision lingering again on all those unfamiliar scars, wondering. Their training ensured both of them were far from unmarred at a young age, but it's still concerning. All the more so when the vampire, half-turned away, unlaces his pants and kicks them to the side and a further vast tracery of old slices and burn markings appears. It takes a great deal more mental effort that Estinien wants to use to look away before he's openly seeking for _more_ , not to mention to keep down the secondary surge of defensive anger that was roused once tonight already. To distract himself, he roughly finishes stripping and slams the tap shut, quickly clambering into the oversized tub and sinking down into the water. 

Determined not to be caught out in his staring (which is if he was being more truthful, isn't the same as _actually_ not staring), Estinien grabs one of the clothes and soap and starts rubbing himself down as Aymeric takes a far more languid pace of sliding into the water. Scooting to make sure there's enough room, for a few moments, there is peaceable quiet, and once he's actually _clean_ , it's easy enough for Estinien to lean back against the side of the tub, head tilted up to the ceiling, and try and actually relax. Until a quiet voice interrupts him, at least.

Rather than the earlier good-natured teasing, he can hear a quiet wistfulness in Aymeric's speaking, low and even. "Thank you. For your protection. While I was certainly telling the truth about having no doubt in your skills, seeing that you are still willing to come to my defense despite everything that has passed between us and the current situation is no small thing." Those pale blue eyes rest on Estinien's face, darkened by complicated emotion, and Aymeric shifts until he's sitting in parallel, a short arm's length away. "Do not mistake my gratitude."

Swallowing down a sudden hard lump in his throat, one tanned hand dragging droplets of water back through the fall of snowy hair, Estinien turns to the side just enough to catch that gaze. "Even if I didn't ever shy away from doing my duty-" He has to draw in another breath, slightly ragged, then forces himself to continue, "It never even occurred to me not to defend you, Aymeric. No matter the situation. I could not --" The words are a stumble, and it's _ridiculous_ , because he could and would have said this easily when they were merely (was it ever _merely?_ ) friends. "I would not ever leave you to be harmed when I could prevent it." There, that's honest, but it's not an actual statement of _emotions_.

His gaze is held for a long time, but even he can read the gratitude and softening in the vampire's face, the strangely alien touch of gentle wonder. How he can inspire this, in such a creature, is disconcerting, and after a bit, Estinien clears his throat and reaches across, drawing a wet fingertip over the curve of Aymeric's cheek, where a dried smear of blood has gone unnoticed. "Finish washing up. I need actual food and, as much as I hate to say this, to reconsider wearing your damn _trinkets_ around the house if attacks are actually this common. Wouldn't do for you to get attacked in the daytime when asleep and find myself at a disadvantage." 

Aymeric makes a soft sound of agreement and moves to finish cleaning his face and washing his hair, and Estinien does the same, the movements breaking the companionable peace a little, but on the whole, the oddly domestic moment remains… pleasant. 

  
Later, back in his room and properly fed, resting in bed, the oft-abandoned gold bands now carefully clasped in place, Estinien tries to sleep, ignoring the draw in him to another place, to the nagging feeling of being _too far_ from where he ought to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, as ever, I encourage those looking for wonderful people who discuss, write, and read FFXIV fic to check out [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN). I'd also like to leave a general plea and reminder that while I am not usually one to nag about feedback, keep in mind that the world is extra stressful right now, and hitting that kudos button or leaving a quick comment, even if it's just a ':)' or 'Thanks!' does a lot to encourage those still trying to create amidst confusion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temper and tempering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my instigators on Discord who give me feedback and comments. <3 You keep me motivated.

By the middle of the day, Estinien accepts that he will not sleep well where he is. Pulling a blanket off of his bed, he finds himself creeping out into the hallway and settling himself against the wall not far from Aymeric's room. He could argue his reasons for doing so, but right now, exhaustion makes him honest, if only with himself, and he knows the truth of it: he longs to be close, because he can only rest easy after the last night if he knows that his lord is well and safe. Just being closer lessens the tension within, at least a little; tucking the blanket around himself, he settles to lean back against the unforgiving wood of the wall and despite the utter contrast to his soft bed (or mayhap _because_ of it), dozing off there, he sleeps eminently better than he would have otherwise. 

He is woken by the gentle prod of a sock clad foot against his own bare one and a lusciously smooth voice full of amusement. "Estinien, correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you were given a perfectly good chamber of your own to sleep in, complete with a fireplace and bed. Why in all of Halone's halls are you asleep, half-covered, in the hallway?" Estinien rakes a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face, and blinks up at Aymeric sleepily.

Now is the moment where he has to decide to fall back on his usual disclaimers and deceits, but he has a feeling they'd fail anyway, between the gold encircling limbs and neck, the quiet thrum of dragon relics in his blood, and the swaying shine of the crystal at his ear. "Couldn't calm myself after the attack. Felt better being closer, where I could respond if it wasn't a single attempt." Shoving against the floor, he clambers to his feet, drawing the blanket a bit closer around his shoulders. "Shut it before you tell me I'm being irrational, because I know I am, but I wanted some damned sleep."

Aymeric considers him for a moment, slightly hard to read in his sleep-fuzzed state, then he smiles, amused but with a clearly affectionate edge. "If it remains so terribly difficult to sleep well for being watchful, have the servants wake me. They can make a bed of sorts out of the sofa in my chambers so you'll at least be warm." The dark-haired man reaches across, tugging a bit at the blanket's edge in increasing humor. "Go. Get dressed properly. I should make a visit to my sire to update him about what happened last night and prove to everyone there, in case one of them was behind it, that I am hale and unharmed and unbothered. I'll make sure the kitchen has something ready for you to eat before we leave." Estinien simply nods, unsure how else to respond, and he stalks off to prepare to face the court once more.

((-----))

Thankfully, his armor has been properly cleaned and returned, and with that and his lance, all the power-filled fripperies of the jewelry, and a quick brushing of hair, Estinien feels that he is presentable enough to deal with the court. It's not like this is a full formal situation, right? After a last careful check over everything, not willing to trust it to chance or other's eyes anymore, he goes to meet up with Aymeric and travel to the church.

As before, the room is smoky and hazed with far too much incense, roiling in the senses until it becomes nauseating and never quite fully hiding the undertones of blood and sweat. Tonight, at least, the space is less full and a quick sweep of midnight-toned eyes can pick out the absence of several members of the Ward, which probably explains why. Less here to curry favor with, less here to seek the darker sensations. Aymeric's pace through the open room is calm and unhurried, no doubt meant to show off their health and comfort after any rumors that might have been spreading due to the night before. Estinien understands the purpose of it, which doesn't mean he likes it, feeling far too exposed to the wandering gazes of a great many people he has less than no trust in.

As before, the entrance to the small side chamber where Thordan rules is guarded by a single slim, robed figure, his dark hair reflecting an elegant sheen in the candlelight, lips curled into a serpentine smile. "Ah, the Lord de Borel and your pet. We wondered if you might dare to wander out of your little bolthole after hearing there was some most unfortunate excitement after your excursion the other night. Truly, what a disappointment to know that our city yet remains unsafe despite all of our diligence."

Estinien might care more about being called a _pet_ if the depths of his scar wasn't suddenly painfully white-hot with the pulsing throb of anger, a familiar burning. Miraculously, despite the clear intensity of emotion, Aymeric is showing no outward sign beyond the levin-bolt intense pale blue of his eyes, lingering on Charibert's in a challenge that doesn't touch his words. "A disappointment indeed, especially for those tasked with security, I am sure. Given that such matters are of obvious concern to my father, I felt I should stop by and see that I was able to answer any questions he might have. I would hope that you might see clear to admit us?"

The words are flashing in parry and riposte like daggers glinting in the dim lights of a dark alley; even if Estinien can't follow every detail of it, the hostility is clearer than it was before, especially when Charibert's gaze comes back to his own form, eyeing with clear covetousness that he thinks has nothing to do with such simple instincts as lust. When the fire mage speaks again, his voice is all but oiled. "I believe there are no visitors at the moment. Follow me."

Sure enough, when they slip past the draperies into Thordan's private sanctuary, there are few within; the vampire king himself, and a few attendants waiting to answer to any need. And guards, of course. Always, guards. Looking quite at home on his throne, Thordan gives a minute nod of his head in greeting, in contrast to the deep bow that Aymeric makes and Estinien imitates. "Ah, my son. I had wondered if you would bestir yourself after your apparent excitement the other night. Most unfortunate, given how well the people respond to you. My intent was to ask that you increase your visits, perhaps to every other night. I had considered if that might be too risky, but given how effectively your servant handled the threat, it seems it may well still be reasonable."

Estinien _feels_ the increasing tension in Aymeric far more than he can see it as the dark-haired man straightens, although the corners of his mouth have gone tight. He'd recognized that Aymeric hated having to interact with and feed upon the remaining faithful, but it's clear this has been a matter of long-running conflict between the two vampires. "Sire. Forgive me for the presumption in asking again, but I would truly prefer-" That is as far as the protest gets before he is cut off with an abrupt wave of the vampire overlord's hand and a deepening frown.

"No. Like everyone else in this court, you _will_ do your part to maintain and spread our power, or there will be consequences. I assure you, if you are overly distracted, Ser Charibert would be happy to take care of your household matters for a time, including those that might be keeping your focus off of doing your duty." Eyes colder than any ice in Ishgard linger on him for a moment and Estinien finds himself suppressing both his own and Aymeric's desire to _snarl_ in return, and oh, it is not a good thing to realize that his may be the self-control keeping them in check here.

Aymeric's voice is audibly restrained as he sketches another low bow, his face as still and hard as sculpted marble. "I assure you, that will not be necessary. I shall see that the updates to my schedule are made promptly. Were there any other concerns you wish me to address at this time?" Then tension in him is wound so tight that it's physically painful through the bond.

"No. I'll send someone to check in with you after your next visit to the faithful, to ensure it went well." There's another wave of Thordan's hand, a clear dismissal, and Aymeric turns smartly to leave the room, Estinien following close behind. He's starting to think the worst is past, when they get a short distance away and discover Charibert lounging against the wall, looking all too pleased with himself. There's a half-second when Estinien reaches to try and grab Aymeric's arm, to remind him of restraint before he can be taunted, but the fire mage is faster, his oily voice a low murmur that won't carry past them.

"Such a shame, to have to remember you only matter so long as you're useful, doesn't it? We all know sooner or later, you won't have the stomach, boy, and you will lose everything you have. I _am_ looking forward to breaking your new toy." Charibert was never the sort of person Aymeric would have been fond of, but whatever happened in the past year, the enmity has clearly deepened to a very personal level. Enough so that it's almost immediate that his bonded _lunges_ into the mage's personal space, not touching him, but close enough that the threat is clearly implied.

"Do you _truly_ think I'm too unaware to figure out who has been whispering that particular suggestion in his ear, again and again, Charibert? That I am unaware of your envy and greed, that I do not know how _resentful_ you are of both losing your opportunities to torment me and being denied the right to claim a bond-servant of your own to _play with_? If my father ever makes the mistake of granting you access to him, let me make some things very clear. If your teeth touch his veins, I will pull them out by the roots and _feed them to you._ If you hurt him, I will take you apart, ilm by ilm. You wanted to find out how to break me? Put your hands on what belongs to me and you can find out just how broken I am. You won't _dare_ to." Lips curled back just enough to show the edges of his fangs, Aymeric clearly has no hesitation in this moment to openly display his aggression and hatred to anyone in the room who happens to be watching the little scene unfold.

The content of those words would worry Estinien less if they'd been delivered in the expected low hiss or growl, but while Aymeric's voice has gone a touch deeper and smoother with warning, he is as calm and slick as ice, as ungiving as adamantite; he means _every word_. Whether Charibert is wise enough to recognize that and understand it is a wholly different matter, however. Panic starts to clench the dragon-blooded's stomach into knots as he recognizes that the risk here is very real of Aymeric's self-control, invariably frayed at all times under the stress of adapting to his new nature, could be pushed into snapping entirely if he's challenged too hard right now.

Finally getting his hand on the other man's arm, Estinien hauls back with enough strength to bodily pull Aymeric almost to him, which he will probably regret later. Right now, he just wants to get the two vampires away from each other before this boils over into something that will have much greater consequences than it needs to. Lips pressed almost to the other man's ear, he hisses under his breath, "You are giving him exactly the response he wanted and showing him where you're weak. We need to _leave_ , not make it worse."

Charibert is laughing, because he apparently does either have no sense of self-preservation or is overly sure of the security of being in the favored circle. Tightening his fingers down harder, suspecting he's leaving bruises, Estinien pulls again on Aymeric's arm, feeling the knotted tension in his muscles, how close he is to leaping into motion again. Licking his lips, he tries one more thing, his voice pitched very soft, especially not wanting to be overheard. "Aymeric. Please." It's not a term he uses and he hopes that alone will be enough to shock sense back into place.

He knows he's succeeded when there's a very slight indrawn hiss of breath audible to his ears and the burning knot of tension at the bonding scar suddenly eases, if only slightly. Straightening, Aymeric steps back, shaking off the grip on his arm. His voice is still calm, but since it never stopped being apparently so, it's not much to judge by. "Enough of this for tonight. Let us be gone."

((-----))

While they return to the house with no interruptions, Aymeric's internal seething becomes only more obvious with each street corner turned. By the time they're through the threshold, Estinien tries to head it off, seeing the lines of the raven-haired man's lips already drawing tight in preparation for ranting if he's allowed. "You need to burn off some of your energy. A bout in the courtyard?" 

There's a second of hesitation, then Aymeric gives a small nod of his head, conceding, "I suppose I am like to feel more rational if I take the edge off and that seems the most likely means to do so. It'll be like training as knights all over again." 

A slight wolfish grin pulls at the edges of Estinien's lips and he can't quite resist the barb, although it's meant in good humor. "Ah, so you expect to go back to losing? That's reassuring." Swaggering comfortably, he leads the way, hearing a faint sputter of insult in his wake. Good. Distraction is a relevant approach too; Aymeric has never had an easy temper to set off, but by the Fury, when you _did_ , all that repression and resentment and ambition tended to boil off in a toxic mess if it wasn't diverted. 

After a quick scan to be sure the courtyard remains undisturbed and secure, other than the faint stirrings of the night wind under the stars, Estinien draws his lance and turns, preparing for a quick rush of an attack. Which is what he receives; this is a very familiar dance, no matter how long it has been since they put the steps into practice, as smooth and elegant as the waltz, and as full of raw power as a howling wolf. Aymeric is in motion and glides to meet him, blade swinging.

The main difference now is pace; in the past, Estinien often slowed himself if the power in his blood was running high, to keep things closer to fair. Now, there is no need; even bedecked in drachen mail, wearing the bangled power relics, he would have to draw on them fully to truly outpace Aymeric's new speed. As it is, they are more evenly matched than they ever have been, almost in total sync, parry and thrust, the raise of shield to block, the turning aside of a swung blade with the haft of a spear. With both well-armored and neither trying to cause true harm, what hits do land are mostly minor, bruises and scrapes, although he manages a strike against Aymeric's hip that incites a slight limp, while a well-timed swat from the flat of a blade against his ribs leaves Estinien drawing breaths more shallow and aching.

It still seems to be going well until a particularly powerful swing comes in and as Estinien angles the haft of his spear to stop it. He realized quickly that either Aymeric was hitting harder than he thought or he's misplanned the angle of his block. There's a horrible grating sound as the flat of the blade slips up along the pole as if guided and the tip flicks over his jawline and cheek, opening a long, stinging cut that bleeds freely. The scent of blood hits the air and Aymeric's pupils blow wide open, swallowing up the ice blue of his eyes. Estinien stumbles back and, for the first time, he finds himself truly _afraid_ of the man he's magically bound to, aware of just how much of a _predator_ he has allowed into his space and started to grow comfortable with. 

Then awareness washes back in quickly as his fear registers and the hunger is replaced by an absolute visible _flood_ of guilt washing over the vampire's features. Aymeric's sword clatters to the ground, shield following it, and he stumbles back several steps, voice shaking. "Oh, Fury, Estinien, I'm sorry, I-I, I wasn't--" Despite his words and clear horror, it's not at all hard to see that the vampire's eyes are locked onto the blood flowing down Estinien's neck, like a drunk staring at the bartender pouring his next round. Given that, the dragon-blooded decides not to put his own weapon down yet or try and staunch the wound, holding the lance across his body like a barrier. 

"Get yourself under control." 

Looking away, Aymeric nods, crossing his arms over his chest, stepping a few more times so that Estinien can pick up his discarded blade. Chest aching, he watches for a long few moments, still unsure, until the moment when the armor-clad shoulders he's gazing at start to shake and he realizes just how badly this has all gone. Biting off a sharp curse, he drops both weapons this time and moves closer, or at least tries to, Aymeric starting to turn away even as he does. "Stop. You're fine." It doesn't seem like his words are convincing -- what a shock -- and after another careful evasion, Estinien growls, his fear already faded into worry, and grabs both of Aymeric's shoulders roughly. " _Aymeric._ "

Self-recrimination is hardly an unfamiliar emotion and it takes no effort at all to recognize how clearly it's writ across that finely-hewn face, nor the somewhat shocking addition of a wet gleam to icy eyes. At least he's no longer being completely evasive and Estinien draws in a slow breath, voice softening a little. "I'll send someone out here to clean up. I shouldn't have pushed when you were already high strung. We can go in and bandage this." Being the calm one feels more than a little unusual, but he doesn't see any other choice. Given the tension he can still feel winding Aymeric so tight he might explode, he doesn't let go of the grip of his hands, not sure he can trust that he might not leave and do something _stupid_ if he's left to his own devices. A series of deep, shaking breaths rattles from the vampire's throat, then, slowly, his shoulders slump and he gives a minute nod of his head.

Grip loosening, then sliding til one hand rests at the small of Aymeric's back, Estinien carefully guides him inside, keeping on high alert for any signs of further outbursts of emotional intensity. Thankfully, there's little need to alert the staff; as soon as they step inside, it's clear several of them were watching the bout, and while he can feel humiliation at his public loss of control writhing within Aymeric through the connection between them, everyone there stays calm faced and unacknowledging, one man heading out the door to retrieve the discarded weaponry. Voice roughened, Estinien glances at the steward, checking quickly, "There's still medical supplies in my room?"

"Of course."

Nodding his gratitude, the dragon-blooded does his best to keep Aymeric focused on their goal, shoving him forward into his chamber once they reach it. He's hoping he's regained enough rationality to get the kit on his own, because by now, there's blood soaking into his shirt under his mail, and he'd rather get it off before both are an unholy mess. Fingers start unfastening his armor and gauntlets, dumping the latter onto their spot on the armor stand first, when he hears a slightly strangled noise from the other man and looks back at him.

Aymeric _has_ found the supplies, and opened them, which doesn't begin to cover the faintly panicked expression on his face. Estinien pauses, the mail almost ready to be peeled free, and blinks at him slowly. Then realization trickles in and he sighs. "Turn around if seeing that much blood on me is going to be tempting. I'll wipe off what I can before you treat the wound." He waits a second and Aymeric turns his gaze aside, starting to pull out the supplies he thinks he'll need. As efficiently as he can, Estinien pulls the mail off and drops it onto the stand, dragging his shirt to follow. As he expected, blood has started to seep out across the shoulder and with a sigh he bunches the top up, finding a clean spot to use to scour the blood away from his neck and the wound, where it's started the clot. Once he thinks he has most of it away, he clears his throat softly. "Alright." The shirt is lobbed off to the side, and a moment later, Aymeric has moved next to him.

He knows he's finally at least somewhat calm by how gentle the touch that tilts his head to examine the wound is, even if he can still see guilt and regret written clean over handsome features. Apparently, part of what Aymeric was doing while he was cleaning up was getting water from the basin, as the first cloth that touches his skin is wet. Careful motions wipe away the smears of dried blood first, then ghost lightly around the edges of the wound, cleaning as much as possible. When he speaks, Aymeric's voice is a little ragged, traces of harsh emotion roughening the edges. "At least it was a clean cut and it will have bled out anything that got in the wound." Not wanting to speak and mess up the tending, Estinien grunts an acknowledgement, wincing a little as the cut is then smeared with antiseptic, no matter how delicate and tender the fingers are placing it. It's a relief when Aymeric fits one of the new style edge-sealing bandages over it, some trick keeping them in place without having to wrap up your entire damned skull. It's lucky that there still are some in the house's supplies, given that they were being imported from Mor Dhona and trade has been rather disrupted in the last year or two.

Instead of pulling away once the bandage is affixed, Aymeric's fingers linger in place, a very faint tremor in them. "It is very hard to fight the desire to make further apologies, even knowing that you will loudly insist I am a fool for giving them for what you see merely as a natural risk of engaging in mock combat." To his own surprise, Estinien finds his hand lifting to curve against the back of Aymeric's, trying to soothe him a little.

"So don't. As much as I hate to admit to it, you've dealt with me in a temper enough times I shouldn't hold it against you for losing yours. I won't lie and say I'm not worried about the results, though." Or more specifically, that he's pretty sure Aymeric just painted an even bigger target on his back where Charibert is concerned. As the awareness fully sinks in of what his hand is doing, he starts to move it away, startled when his movement is quickly followed and it's clasped in both of the other man's, if awkwardly.

"Yes. I'm aware that I let my emotions overplay my hand there and I will needs be chary of the consequences." For a moment, exhaustion overrides the lingering guilt and frustration painted across Aymeric's features. "For now, I suppose, I will watch your back and hopefully, you will continue to agree to watch mine." There's a weary smile, tinged with the same recrimination, before he squeezes the captured hand and lets go.

Something catches in Estinien's throat for a moment, and he answers gruffly, "Always. I thought I'd made that clear already." Flexing his hand, a little, there's a moment of hesitation, then he starts to repackage the kit, face feeling very slightly warm. "You might as well have the servants make up your couch. If anyone at the court _was_ behind those sellswords, they may be smart enough to avoid following up for a while and drawing attention -- or they may decide to strike again while you're still unsettled."

"I'll see to it." For a moment, Aymeric's eyes linger on his face -- on the bandage? -- but whatever else passes through those pale blue gaze is too complicated and shifting to be put into words easily and after a moment, he collects the laundry and moves away. "You should change into something comfortable. I'll see you near dawn and," There's a slight pause, "I'll bring up some writing on what we know about the bonding process for you to read if you can't sleep."

Maybe he knows better than to apologize in words, but Estinien knows an attempt at a gesture of reconciliation all the same. He gives a slight nod to show his acceptance, then watches Amyeric retreat, gaze lingering in the direction the dark-haired man left in for a long few moments, lips pursed slightly in thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, as ever, I encourage those looking for wonderful people who discuss, write, and read FFXIV fic to check out [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN). I'd also like to leave a general plea and reminder that while I am not usually one to nag about feedback, keep in mind that the world is extra stressful right now, and hitting that kudos button or leaving a quick comment, even if it's just a ':)' or 'Thanks!' does a lot to encourage those still trying to create amidst confusion.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for things being a bit slow as the world goes weird. Hopefully it's acceptable. As ever, my thanks to those who leave feedback or poke me on Discord, y'all's screaming keeps me going. <3

Gradually, their nights begin to find a rhythm. Estinien sleeps on the made-up couch in Aymeric's room and tells himself he doesn't rest easier for being able to hear the other man's steady breathing when he wakes in the middle of the day across the room. On the decreed days, they go to the Cathedral, Aymeric endures his duties, and Estinien paces restlessly until they get home safely. So far, it has been quiet, which has only made his nervousness increase. The ordained check-in after the first trip after their meeting with Thordan was a visit by a priest and while unpleasant, he was easy enough to placate and send off again. Too prideful to let him duck away out of fear, Estinien insists Aymeric keep practicing with him, although they're both more careful then they were at first.

On the days when they can stay home, Estinien tries to puzzle out the handwritten notes that Aymeric gave him in the free time between practicing and meals. Some of it -- the parts he can parse easily -- are actually Aymeric's own notes, but those are clearly incomplete references to what was clearly something passed on orally and they're not always wholly coherent and are often highly abbreviated. The few pieces he does have that go beyond that are in a handwriting archaic enough that it's a genuine struggle to read and he finds himself having to pick through it in small pieces before frustration sets in and makes continuing unbearable. 

If he's being completely honest with himself, part of the problem is that a lot of it seems to have to do with magical or spiritual theories of some form or another, which is not precisely his area of skill. Estinien suspects he's smarter than most people assume given his background and role as a shepherd-turned-soldier, but it's hard to compensate for a simple lack of area knowledge sometimes. In the end, he seeks out Aymeric in his office, dropping the stack of papers on his desk and pulling a chair over so he can lean his arms against the wood surface. "Look, half of this is incomprehensible. Can I ask you for a few clarifications?"

Aymeric looks up and closes the ledger he'd had open, not concealing his slight wariness as well as he probably thinks he does. "I imagine that it would only be fair for me to answer what questions I can."

The implication is clear that he might not entirely understand what he did either, and _that_ is a less than reassuring thought. Shoving the stack of papers closer, Estinien taps a fingertip against the top one, where there's a drawing of a faceted, ragged shape about the size of a barleycorn. "These… gemstones used in the bonding. They're made of concentrated magic, blood, and aether?" There's a cautious nod from Aymeric and the dragon-blooded's eyes narrow. "Unless I'm misreading this, it's supposed to be a scale drawing. The wound I had after you--" A slight pause and a hitch in his voice as he tries to think of a non-inflammatory way to say 'after you stabbed the Fury-damned thing into my back', "Bonded me -- was significantly larger than would be needed for something that size."

Aymeric's gaze goes evasive, focused oh-so-intently on the drawing as he pulls it closer with one hand. "As it was explained to me, a small gemstone makes for a weaker bonding in either direction, but it's easier to create. A larger one makes for a strong bond, but there are greater risk to both sides in something going wrong, as well as in drawing so heavily on yourself so as to create such a thing, since it is a wellspring of personal power and an unused one is a point of significant vulnerability until it has been placed." Estinien unconsciously reaches one hand behind himself, drawing fingertips along the still tender scar under his ribs in the back. 

"Aymeric, this scar is _at least_ as long as my thumb."

Voice unruffled, although the slight glow of heat from deep within the very scar they're discussing betrays that the calm is not totally honest, Aymeric explains, "The entry would is bigger because the goal is to introduce the gem deep into the body, so it's typically played at the tip of some sort of weapon. Even when the bonding is expected, it's the simplest method, and you have seen how fond my father and his ilk are of using the most bloody and direct route to things."

Battling an increasing urge to rub at his nose like he's getting a headache, Estinien returns to his original point. "Aymeric, _how much of you_ did you shove in here and what difference does it _make_? Don't point me to some Fury-blasted messy set of half-baked notes, just use your fucking words, you're supposed to be good with those!"

After an exasperatingly long pause, Aymeric lifts his hand, crooking his thumb slightly to showcase the first joint. "It's possible I was somewhat concerned about failing if I did not put enough of myself into the effort, so I was perhaps very slightly overambitious. I could not countenance the idea that if I tried and failed you would die or be given into the care of someone else, however, so it seemed better to take the risk." He glances up, seeming to hope that alone was enough information to end the line of questioning, only to be met by what Estinien can only hope is impatient steel in his gaze. After a few beats, Aymeric sighs deeply and continues. "Please understand that this is all fairly theoretical. So far as I know, other than a few very old examples, the widespread use of such skills is something that has only come about since the coup and a great deal of what I can say is based on pure conjecture." Once Estinien gives a curt nod, he continues. "The combination of a bite with the gemstone in place activates it and, in some way, blends the aetheric energies. That's why I can always tell where you are and you're learning to do the same; a part of me, in essence, is in you, so I can control and locate it."

"Yeah, the _control_ part was hard to miss." The grumpy rumble of interjection is too much for the silver-haired man to resist, and when Aymeric glares back for a moment, he just smirks minutely. Sure enough, despite the needling, the knight plunges back into his explanation after a moment.

"Yes, well, that is _part of the intent_ , obviously. A bonded servant who can not be located, or locate a master in need, is no more useful than any other, as is one who could theoretically turn on you. Most bond servants eventually become sensitive to emotional changes in their bonded, although-" Eyes like the sun through ice catch onto Estinien's, bright with intensity, and he swallows, "While you are not prone to saying so openly, certain actions have made me suspect you are already more aware in that sense than I had been lead to expect. A possible side effect of my 'overambition'. Beyond that…" He spreads his hand, palm turned up to the ceiling. "I get more effective sustenance from feeding from you and if another vampire did so, they would both get less and the more influencing effects of the bite would be unable to take effect due to my protection. That can be both a bane and a boon, unfortunately."

Estinien's mind slips back to Aymeric's words the last time they were at the court and he grimaces faintly. "That was part of why you were so, ah, irritable at the idea that Charibert would want to feed from me?"

There's an overly long delay as Aymeric contemplates his hand, ending with him dropping it back to the desktop. "A part, yes. He knows it would be painful for you if he did and he is the sort of man who would enjoy that. The rest is, perhaps, more rooted in personal emotion."

"You mean the rest is you're a possessive bastard and don't like people fucking with your things." Estinien tosses out the needling insult more or less from habit, not expecting to get anything other than an annoyed or exasperated look for his troubles. Instead, he gets a painful twinge in his side that has him already looking to Aymeric's face even before he speaks.

"No. I just don't like other people touching _you_." The level of quiet sincerity in that voice twists like a knife, like the memory of blood-touched lips on his, like the rush of adrenaline when he saw arrows cutting towards them through the night sky. Estinien studies Aymeric's gaze, the sudden edge of wistful longing in his eyes, the slight self-depreciation to the curve of his lips, and something in him cracks like thin ice over rushing waters. Feeling an utter fool, but at the same time, feeling utterly unable _not_ to do something, he reaches for the hand lying atop the papers, almost delicate in intertwining his fingers with the other man's and squeezing them.

He knows his own voice is rough, but then, it always is. "Idiot. I'm pretty sure Charibert has noticed that, and he's not the only one." He doesn't _mean_ to turn it into a warning, but once the words are in his mind, they're pretty much instantly out his mouth as well. Grimacing slightly at his own stupidity, he moves to pull his hand back again, embarrassed, but Aymeric grips it more tightly, not willing to let go.

"I do apologize for that part of it. I did not mean to place you in unnecessary danger." He obviously, honestly _means_ it too, of course, being Aymeric. Sighing exhaustedly, Estinien tightens his grip again, back to reassuring instead of trying to pull away.

"Enough. I'm just tired of waiting for them to try something again, because none of you acted like you expect anything else." Aymeric lets out a quiet sigh at that as well, acknowledging the truth of it, and after a moment to study him, Estinien smiles weakly. "I know. I'll keep watching your back and you'll watch mine."

((-----))

When the sword that's been hanging over them finally falls shortly after they leave the house for the Cathedral a few nights later, it's almost a relief to at least have an end to the tension of waiting. There's a pair of cracks that split the air like thunder and even moving as soon as he hears them, a searing line of pain scrapes over Estinien's ribs despite his mail. Turning himself in the direction the shots originated from, he tries to step between Aymeric and their attackers. The air is gaining a coppery tang and he's feeling _pain_ through the bond, fairly sure that he wasn't the only one hit, but he doesn't dare look back to see where or how as he tries to pick the outline of their assailant -- assailants? -- out of the darkness. Voice a low growl, lance held tight in his hand, he asks carefully, "Can you move? We need to break line of sight and _fast_."

"I can still move." Pain has ratcheted Aymeric's voice down to a tight clip, but it's enough that he's still coherent and moving. Estinien's gaze settles on a fountain a short distance away, and he reaches back blindly, offering one hand.

"Behind the fountain. Get down and let me find them." There's a grunt of acknowledgement and a heavy hand in his, then he's running, dragging Aymeric after him -- and it is a _drag_ , he can feel the other man stumbling, and Estinien has to suppress fear at wondering how bad the wound is, what it is, but he doesn't dare _stop_ until he's sure they're behind cover. Only once Aymeric has sunk down with his back in the flowing water tumbling down the upright stone column does he dare to look down, head ducked given that further shots have ricocheted off cobblestones in their wake. The water in the basin around Aymeric's legs is already clouding pink, warning enough that there's a still bleeding wound and this far from an agreeable environment for it. Cursing under his breath, the dragoon studies the reflections in the surrounding windows, finally spotting a flash of light on metal that lets him locate the machinist. "Stay."

He taps into all the power of the relics, drawing it through himself, then throws his form bodily forward, relying on the speed of his blood and heritage to get him there before another shot goes off. As much as he sometimes resents the flash and flattery of the additional relics, right now, all that matters is that it's _more_ he can rely on, more he can use to turn himself into the spear of the heavens. Once he finds an outcropping, he leaps, darting to gain height, higher until he can clearly view the machinist -- and it _is_ only one man, although with two pistols, a hulking Roegadyn in deep grey that blends into the city all too well. He drops, like the blade of Halone herself, the man's head jerking up at the sound of rushing air far too late to avoid the actual impact. The same, in all honesty, could be said for the surrounding cobbles, radiating out in fractures from the point of impact where the tip of his lance sunk into the ground.

Yanking it free violently, Estinien pants and spins, looking for any other further enemies. Strangely, unlike before, this seems to have been the sole attacker. He can see lights on in nearby windows, hear running feet as he glances back down the street, spotting someone calling for the guards. Finally satisfied, he glances down at the body, giving it the same cursory examination as before. An uneven thump of feet announces Aymeric's limping arrival and before he can give him opinion on _that_ , the dark-haired lord lifts a hand and murmurs softly, voice still tight.

"Don't argue. Pull up his shirt." It's one of the weirder things that Aymeric has requested, but Estinien isn't that surprised to find that his trust is back at the point where he does so without even attempting to argue mentally. It doesn't take much, a few inches aside, and he draws in a hissed breath at the spot of a large red palm print branded into the flesh of would-be assassin's side. There's a very tired sound from Aymeric and Estinien lets the shirt drop, turning back to his bonded and starting to slide an arm around him for support. "Charibert, and he wanted me to know it. I had hoped it would not come to this."

Estinien makes a quiet sound and looks down at the spreading blood on Aymeric's thigh, rather more immediately concerned about that even before the source of the attack. "Not to ignore the politics--" But definitely to ignore the politics for now, "But I'm pretty sure we need an actual healer this time." He's not unaware that the broader man is starting to lean more heavily on his arm, struggling more as time passes. "Can you make it back to the house and is there someone who can be fetched there?" As soon as he gets a nod, Estinien kicks the two flintlocks away from the body, then does his best to functionally _haul_ Aymeric home without humiliating him, even if their progress is nerve-wrackingly slow.

It is, however, uninterrupted, which is good, because by the time he drags the broader man up the steps it _is_ dragging, Aymeric's hold on consciousness growing increasingly tenuous. Rather than trying to have him hold himself up to open the door, the dragoon settles for slamming one armored foot into it repeatedly, sure that the ridiculously loud noise will rapidly summon a servant. Which it does. Barging past them the second the door is cracked, he all but carries the Lord Commander to the front parlor, dropping him down on the front sofa as he yells out, "Whoever swiving knows the healer, GO GET THEM!"

Someone drops one of the medical kits onto the couch and Estinien grunts faintly in thanks, reaching for the hole the slug tore through Aymeric's pants. Curling gauntleted fingers into it on either side, he tugs, hard, the fabric parting with a loud tearing noise from ankle to nearly waistband. The important part is that it bares the leg beneath and the entry wound. Lifting up the knight's leg enough to confirm there's no matching blood patch from an exit wound on the back, the dragoon degrades into a long torrent of cursing as he grabs a handful of bandaging from the kit and presses down, hard, on the welling blood, doing his best to ignore Aymeric's brief keen of discomfort. Without letting up pressure, he at least staunches his bitter expletives as he tries to wrangle the leg up to rest on the armrest. "Lie down flat, would you?"

Glancing aside long enough to be sure Aymeric has either listened or maybe just inadvertently slumped down into about the right position, Estinien keeps pressing down on the wound, knowing he's going to have to hold it until a healer arrives. He doesn't think it's bad enough to bleed the other man out, but it's still a frighteningly bad injury for such a quick, unwarned strike. Ideally, he'd be able to offer some sort of reassurance, but he doesn't dare move his hands, and his few attempts to open his mouth to say something calming invariably devolve into more and more colorful swearing as he watches the bandaging nervously.

Eternities grow, bloom, and wither on the vine as the world narrows to pressure and waiting, until finally a hand falls on his shoulder. "Ease up, son, give me room to work." Tensing to strike, he catches the hues of a clerical robe on the periphery of reason and suddenly yanks himself back into stillness. The healer. Stepping back, Estinien lets his grip knot into fists around the bandaging, gaze intent as the man murmurs a prayer then begins to gesture with glowing hands. Almost as quickly as it appeared, the wound closes, pushing out the slug in the wake of healing flesh. A few moments more and a set of folded hands; it's done. "He will need rest and a solid meal, but the Lord Commander should recover nicely."

Glancing back towards the Steward, Estinien waves him vaguely in the direction of the healer. If there's some sort of payment or negotiation or whatever else to be taken care of, he's sure the man can handle it. "I'm taking him up to his room to rest." He doesn't wait to be told if this is a good idea or not, pushing his way forward and starting to work an arm underneath Aymeric. For better or worse, that's at the point where a weak but still coherent voice interrupts him.

"You don't have to try and carry me, just help me walk." Scowling a bit but not wanting to waste the time in arguing, Estinien carefully helps to leverage Aymeric off the couch and back to a standing position. He does his best to ignore the instincts that want him to stand between the other man and even the healer and staff and instead just shifts his arm to provide the best bracing as they start to move, slow but more smoothly than before the wound had been closed. It's something. The other voices fade into the background as they approach the stairs and climb the steps, slow and careful.

After reaching the room and helping strip Aymeric out of the torn remnants of his pants, not to mention the rest of his clothes, Estinien coaxes him into sitting on the edge of the bed. "Wait there." He catches a rather droll look of acceptance darted at him through dark lashes, but there is no protest made verbally, and when he returns with a damp cloth and having shed his own armor, the vampire is still waiting, his face drawn with exhaustion. Crouching next to the bed, the dragon-blooded starts to clean off what remains of the blood, frowning at the fresh healed pink skin, probably the start of yet another scar.

Over his head, he hears a distracted mutter, Aymeric apparently talking mostly to himself. "Challenge him to a duel? I don't think he'll admit to it if just called out. Or…" His voice trails off and he frowns, Estinien watching for a moment as the vampire's brows draw tight, clearly still arguing options in his head. The impulse to break the racing thoughts and startle him back into rest is stronger every passing heartbeat, his own body still awash with adrenaline and relief. 

When Aymeric's lips part to voice another thought, he lets instinct take over and stretches up; surprisingly soft, even to himself, his mouth presses to meet parted flesh, silencing anything that might have been meant to be said. There's a split second of shocked tension when contact is first made, then Aymeric is kissing back, curling broad hands around his shoulders to keep them pressed tightly together. For a long moment, the world is nothing but shared breath and warmth, fear-shocked hearts settling into a moment of confirmation and comfort. When he finally breaks the kiss, Estinien fights a brief urge to tremble at the intense surge of emotion, swallowing it down hard before he hesitantly cups a hand over Aymeric's cheek. "Worry about all that later. You have to recover, which means feeding."

  
After a second, he receives a nod of acceptance. Clambering up onto the bed, he pulls Aymeric to his side to lean against the headboard, unable to fully repress the urge for tenderness now that he made the mistake of letting himself indulge. The dark-haired man's gaze is partially hooded with exhaustion but the smile pulling at his lips is almost painful to look at directly because of all the things it makes him _feel_. Finding himself uncomfortably flushed, Estinien mutters a quiet curse that's met with an equally quiet laugh as he shoves his hair back, then sinks a hand into dark strands as Aymeric's lips are drawn unerringly to his neck. "Swiving idiot." The idiot in question bites him and he simply curls in nearer, letting himself for now care only about keeping the feeling of security for both of them at hand as long as he can, for protecting and helping in what way he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know the drill. The [Bookclub](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) is life, the Bookclub is inspiration, join us.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the encouragement, my lovelies, and forgive me as I'm um, mildly indulgent this time. Mildly. Really.

Estinien knows Aymeric had to have fed deeply given that while he has been tired after serving as a meal before, this time, they both pass out and sleep til well past midday. In particular, it means he drifted off, without even having had the energy to get up and move out of Aymeric's bed. Which means that now that he _is_ awake, he has to begin the process of disentangling himself, made significantly more challenging by the fact that Aymeric has settled half-draped over his side. Moving very slowly, he eases his way out, nudging the pillows back a bit more to try and replace some of the presence. There's a faint, grumbling noise from the sleeping vampire and he shifts, curling around the empty warm spot with a faint frown, but doesn't wake.

The urge to reclaim his place in those arms or to reach out and smooth down the other man's sleep tangled hair is almost painful in its intensity and it takes a few deep, measured breaths for Estinien to shove it down and regain his usual control. He doesn't have to give in to… to… _sentimentality._ Swallowing carefully, he slips out and away to find something to eat and finally bathe properly. 

When he returns, at least a bell has passed, and the afternoon sunlight, when rarely glimpsed through the windows, has gained the low golden hue that heralds its eventual disappearance. Despite having slept there for some nights now, it still makes Estinien self-conscious each time he opens the door to Aymeric's sleeping chamber to let himself inside, the subtle implied intimacies of the act always prickling along his spine. Within the room, he finds the fire has burnt down to little but embers, while the man whose essence permeates the space remains abed and apparently lost to needed sleep, having shifted by now til he's pressed down into the empty place where the dragoon had rested earlier. 

Letting himself feel the slight warmth of affection in his chest so long as he can pretend it's because he's rebuilding the fire and starting it to a proper heat again, Estinien pushes back his still damp hair before finally heading for the bed. Hesitating a moment, he carefully sits down on the edge nearer to Aymeric's form, reaching out a hand to give the other man's shoulder a gentle shake. "Aymeric. I should probably let you sleep, but I want to make sure your wound is clear and let you wash." There's a rather tired sound and the vampire rolls onto his back, blinking sleepily up at the ceiling. Fingers itching to touch further and embarrassed to be aware of it, the dragon-blooded swallows and inquires gruffly, "How are you feeling?"

A pair of ice-blue eyes slits open to gaze up at him, a sly smile to match them curling at sculpted lips and baring the tip of one fang. "I would be warmer if I hadn't been left alone in bed… other than that, somewhat hungry and a little sore in the wounded leg. We'll see how it does when I get up properly." The comment is enough to draw a slight scoff from Estinien and he offers one extended palm to Aymeric silently to help him get to his feet. Despite his teasing, he does slide to the edge and out of the bed relatively quickly, although the sight of the dark haired man emerging from under the sheets in nothing but small clothes and undershirt is -- well, let's say it was easier to ignore when he was aware of it but didn't have to _look_ directly without obviously looking.

To what is likely both of their relief, other than a brief initial wobble, Aymeric seems able to move with a fair bit of comfort on the healed leg. Estinien feels a tension he didn't even realize he'd still been holding finally loose from several places in his body, spine unknotting. "Is it doing the thing where the healers _swear_ it shouldn't be any different, but it tingles and feels weak the next day?" Aymeric's chin inclines in a rather wry nod, a certain familiar humor in his eyes; it's a complaint they both made as soldiers and heard many others make but was insistently still treated as superstition. Somewhat to his own surprise, a genuine smile crosses the dragoon's face at the moment of familiar memory, and he half-covers for it by scrambling to his feet. "Let me get clothes together for you to take to the bath."

He can as much feel Aymeric's glance up towards his damp hair as he carefully gathers a set of folded clothes, pressing them into the slightly shorter man's hands. "Sadly, I suppose if you have already washed, it will do me little good to claim to be so enfeebled as to need your help, would it?" The accompanying smile is teasing but very warm, and just the tiniest amount hesitant, unsure of the reception to this open flirting but bold enough to dare for more once again. Even if the subtle but certain geological shifts caused by his initiating the kiss the night before terrify Estinien more than a little, the idea of leaving that hint of fragile uncertainty in the back of Aymeric's gaze when he is already suffering is far worse.

So despite his nerves, he leans in, letting dry lips drag across a pale brow and the dark strands of hair that curl over it. "It would, as I can see full well you're managing on your own. I will be here when you return; you are still recovering and that means being properly fed, after all." The small touch and the implied promise are comfort enough and if there's a certain heat to the way those rime-hued eyes linger on him through dark lashes, well, he can pretend he doesn't notice it or feel the same at least a little longer.

Once Aymeric has left, Estinien distracts himself in small domestic matters; there might be servants here, but he feels better for stripping and changing the bed himself, even if the maid he calls in to take away the dirty linens gives him a rather exasperated look. Let her fuss, he's no high-bred dandy and if he wants to take care of things on his own, what does it harm them? He at least asked for a tray brought up, that's something useful she can do. 

If he lets himself think too deeply, he might have to admit to himself that some of this desire to put things in order himself is from the stranger instincts of his blood, but more of it is out of not wanting to have to think about their current somewhat perilous circumstances. If the Fury is kind, Aymeric's wound will be enough to justify his absences from his duties for a few days, although Estinien has private concerns about just how long that can last or if it will even happen. Beyond that, _how_ and even _if_ confronting their confirmed enemy is a wise idea is something he's very nervous to learn Aymeric's take on, given his weakened will power and increased possessiveness. 

So instead, he arranges the dresser, fluffs pillows on the bed, sets out the tea tray by the fire on the low table by his 'bed', from which he's already stripped the bedding and folded it. He's _not_ trying to be presumptuous and imply anything about where he'll sleep come morning, just make sure there's a comfortable place to sit when eating. Think it enough and he'll be able to ignore that niggling little corner of doubt in the back of his head. Trying to distract himself as he waits, he tosses his form down to sprawl on the couch and pulls a sandwich off the tea tray, consuming it in approximately three bites with no one to watch and lecture him on table manners. Which may be for the best, as shortly after, the door opens and his companion returns.

While his shorter hair dries faster, there's still a few damply tousled curls sticking to the back of Aymeric's neck, and Estinien finds his eyes catching on them for a few long breaths before he clears his throat and offers weakly, "I had them bring tea and food up. I know it's not what you need most, but I thought it wouldn't hurt." The warmth of the smile he receives in return is clear answer enough as Aymeric moves to join him, pouring out a cup of tea for himself as well. Estinien returns to his own eating, trying not to feel fussy just for _watching_ to be sure Aymeric is eating something. 

After a quiet few minutes, the vampire clears his throat. "Forgive me for bringing it up if this is uncomfortable, but I was under the impression last night that perhaps you were against the idea of my attempting to confront Charibert directly at court, given your rather effective methods of distraction." Aymeric's gaze is sharp and intent under the shade of his brow, the heat from the fire starting to lift his hair into midnight down. Estinien looks away for a moment, evasive, but finds he can't keep his gaze elsewhere too long before it is drawn reluctantly back, the magnet of his attention ever seeking his own polar north.

"You know as well as I do who's more in favor. You won't be allowed to win if you challenge him." The dragon-blooded knows his voice is tight and flat, clipped from the attempt to keep as much emotion from it as possible. "Fury's _teats_ , Aymeric, you may well not be allowed to win if you move against him subtly. I know I'm not the most politically smart man in Ishgard, but even I can see that he's having a grand time tormenting you and me and that he thinks he can do so without reprisal. If he's that sure, we'd damn well be certain he's wrong or what we'll do when he's not before we do anything but watch our own backs. I know you remember the assurances of a certain squadron leader that there's no way a dragon was going to be able to fight as well where it chose to defend itself as it did."

They're both quiet for a few minutes, remembering the long ago day when they'd both been the only survivors in their unit of a draconic hunt gone very bad, and has to stagger back towards the main army, bleeding and finally cementing the friendship that Aymeric had been trying to coax out of Estinien for long moons already. In the end, it's Aymeric who breaks the silence, letting out a quiet sigh and leaning in to finger-comb a bit of Estinien's hair into better order, gently fussing with correcting the way it falls over his shoulders and around his ears. "And just as I did then, I believe that so long as you survive to watch my back, I will not have to be afraid."

"You're an idiot and optimist, or do I repeat myself?" Estinien growls softly, shifting a bit against the sofa cushions. "So we wait and take care. And you _recover_. Are you…" He stumbles, asking after this still awkward and uncomfortable for him. "Do you need blood? Can I still help?" The idea of having to let Aymeric go elsewhere to feed rankles at his belly like a meal of underripe berries, promising to make him sick, but his healing is more important than his own stupid possessiveness and pride, hard as it is to convince his heart of what his head knows.

He also knows that that fact was still clear in his voice or face or hells, the way he holds himself, no matter his attempts to hide it, by the way Aymeric's eyes drop from his face to his neck, then up to his lips, soft but full of a quiet heat. "More would not be amiss, but I will not dare to take too much right now. However, if you would prefer I keep to you..." Bloody hells, even the vampire looks unsure for a moment, then he can see a flash of steel determination shine in the light of the fire when that doubt is replaced by a strange mixture of longing and aching _need_. "Oh, hells. You trust me, do you not?"

That question, at least, has been answered all too clearly in the past weeks; despite what he'd thought at first about his long-time friend, what he'd assumed, despite the bindings of blood and magic, heart and soul, in the end, he does. What remains true is what ever has; once he knew Aymeric, he could do nothing _but_ trust in him, and if his knight's faith is now cracked, his certainty tattered and made ragged with holes, it changes nothing in the very most essential nature of him. Tarnished and darkened he may be, but he still is trying to be the best he can, for himself and those he can help. So Estinien gives a simple inclination of his head, trusting in the end to gesture over words to get across the certainty of it.

He must have, because Aymeric _responds_ , sliding closer over the cushions, studying his features for a moment, then reaching up to twist his fingers into the hair at the nape of the dragoon's neck, letting the handhold pull him down, until parted lips brush against parted lips, and then Aymeric surges up against him, mouth warmed by tea, hot and greedy as his tongue seeks. Estinien isn't sure if he was startled at the initiation or if it now seems inevitable, and while he knows he is (embarrassingly) shier and less sure in his skills or desires, he lets his eyelids drift shut to hide away midnight skies, allows himself to drown in the taste and sensation of his bonded, allows himself to trust to Aymeric's guidance in one more thing. There's a curious flutter of sensation at that thought, at the idea of _giving over_ of oneself, that he dares not look at too directly, wondering at what strange tides it heralds but certain it will be like gazing overlong at the mirror and seeing yourself too starkly in a harsh light.

When lips pull away from his, it takes a moment to realize that he may have made some small sound - surely not a whimper, not from him - of protest, and Aymeric's mouth is sliding along his jaw, up to close around the edge of an ear, nipping and flicking with his tongue before hot breath washes over the elongated shell. His voice is low and alluring, _compelling_ in a way that has nothing to do with power or magic, and everything to do with the reality of who it is, and how close they are, and how the throaty whisper makes something much lower than a mere _scar_ throb with longing. "Let me show you what those who come seeking the bite are truly desiring, what I normally don't dare allow."

Curiosity and challenge alone would make that a powerful lure for him, but it's made even all the more so by the question of just what has been held back; again and again, he finds these small ways in which Aymeric has tried to soften their arrangement, subtly punish himself for the choice he will so willingly leap to defend verbally. Or perhaps simply to find ways to keep proving to himself that he still has some degree of self-control, after being forced to lose it. Careful in his movements, as much for his own sake as the other man's, Estinien settles his hands on either side of Aymeric's waist, lets himself idly caress thumbs over the inward slope of torso that so often tugged at the edge of his gaze, the allure of idle curiosity. "Am I supposed to ask what that will mean before I agree?"

The slow way the vampire smiles shows that he is full well aware that even asking is enough to prove he'll give in in the end, but he still steps to engage in the verbal dance, eyes the sheen of ice in firelight. "Supposed to? Perhaps not. Would be wise to? Perhaps so. I assure you, I will do naught that clearly breaks the expectations of a maiden's virtue." The wicked sparkle shows he means the needling affectionately, although it still stings slightly.

Scowl twisting the curve of his lips, Estinien huffs out a rough breath, gaze narrowing a little more. "If you're going to accuse me of being a blushing maiden, I can remind you of a fe-" He has no opportunity to finish the barb he's winding up for as Aymeric's laughing mouth covers his once more, the hand still tangled with his hair used to pull him into the kiss firmly. Well. There are worse ways to lose the battle of wits, after all. The dragoon allows himself the momentary pleasure of forgetting to think other than about what's happening, about the taste of tea and distant blood and something distinctly _Aymeric_ that remains better than any food he's yet to have.

The broad fingers in his hair wind tighter, drawing his head back and stretching out his throat, drawing forth a lowly hissed groan as lips part, touch as soft as the intransient caress of melting snowflakes against the tip of his nose, his chin, the soft skin below his ears. Touch growing ever so slightly firmer, now like the patter of raindrops, Aymeric helps himself to the bared and vulnerable skin of his neck, wandering far beyond just the beat of pulse hotly contained in thin flesh. Reaching the curve of a shoulder, the vampire makes a low rumble of sound that is almost more sensation and there's a hotly wet flicker of tongue before flesh is drawn between plush lips, suckled and nibbled at demandingly until a blossom of bruised claim rises in their wake. The sensation makes Estinien's breath go ragged and he can only pray for the Fury's mercy that he's not blushing when the motion is repeated on the other side, then again next to the first, Aymeric's mouth gradually leaving his neck encircled in soft bruises below the lines of the golden collar. 

Only when he is satisfied with his work, with the way that a chest rises and falls in unsteady patterns, do lips return to settle over the rapid tattoo of a pounding heartbeat. A drag of soft, wet heat, the brush of lips, then fangs just barely felt, not piercing yet now, but only dragged, the very faintest ghost of a touch like the dream of a knife blade just barely grazing the surface of skin. It's more than a little bit frightening and in a way that ignites something else as primordial as terror, the sensation of presumed risk and trust blurring into an almost suffocating suffusion of heat that coils up and out from the very core of the dragoon, spreading tension through him like a bow drawn tight. 

He presumes that the bite is coming then. He is wrong. A second later, the sharply promised edge's path is traced by softer lips, a hand lifted to stroke over his shoulders, a touch that should be endlessly innocent and yet somehow is not, half-reverent and half that of a man marking ownership. Gradually, the slow caresses draw him back to relax once more, still full of anticipation, but no longer ready to leap into reaction. As was intended; as soon as he does, there's that familiar heated pinprick of the graceful slide of fang into vein. Less familiar is the sheer _power_ of the wave of sensation that comes with this time.

Estinien has learned to expect the sensation of soft tugging, of languid pleasure and relaxation that comes when being bitten, more akin to afterglow than anything else. This is something else entirely. What can only be Aymeric's aether -- power? He knows not -- prickles over his skin, like being caressed from toe to ear tip by a vast unseen hand, drawing slow, teasing sensation within and without, unimpeded by clothes or any mental guards he may have once had. Instead, heat begins to spark and ignite within like the catch of a vast bonfire, stoked by a skillful hand, drawing into a dense pulsation of ecstasy, just short of dangerously too much, waving through his form again and again, drawing his body into arousal so intense it's nearly painful. The sheer surge of _sensation_ and even more so of _presence_ , the way all of his senses become nothing but the vampire, where feeling so much at once leaves him stripped bare in self rather than in body, open and vulnerable and _controlled_.

The whole while, there is no physical press closer beyond the soft pressure of lips on skin, the hand on his shoulder, the one in his hair doing nothing more untoward then drawing him in to where he is pinned between Aymeric and the back of the sofa. He becomes distantly aware of sound again; an erratic, sussurant moan that must rise from his own throat. Aymeric's lower groan, part demand and part approval as he drinks, as he continues to manipulate his power to hold the other man at just the point of pleasure he desires, too intense to do anything but struggle for breath and the memory of thought, not strong enough to push everything to a conclusion. 

As ever, as always, trying to track time under the influence of the bite, of the _feeding_ is utterly impossible. When the vampire breaks the seal of his lips, he returns there to gently kiss the still bleeding marks as the sensations gradually start to ebb lower. Shifting his grip to disentangle from hair, he leans back into the sofa's corner slightly, drawing Estinien after him, half-guiding him to settle where the dragon-blooded can rest a head on a broad shoulder, fingers starting to stroke through silver strands with gentle pride and affection. Slowly, Estinien starts to remember words, starts to grow aware of the fact that even without the ongoing effects of that magic, he's still painfully, throbbingly _aroused_ and cursing himself bitterly for the fact that _admitting as much_ is beyond what he can bring himself to do, no matter that he is utterly sure that this was Aymeric's intent.

A glance up through lashes like hoarfrost all but confirms in, as the icy blue eyes that still watch his face are dark with dilation, heavy-lidded with a smug contentment most often associated with felines who have gained free access to the dairy. Damn the bastard, he is _all too aware_ of the effect he has and is enjoying finally being able to revel in it. After another shaky breath, Estinien presses his face a bit closer to the curve of a shoulder, evading that certainty a little longer, even if he knows the fall is ever looming closer. He will be damned, in the end, and it will be his own choice.

Together, they remain curled on the couch for a quiet set of handfuls of minutes, breathing growing even and personal control found again, even as fingers continue to smooth through and over strands like starlight on snow. Eventually, though, the need to say something grows too much and with a low grumble, the dragoon mutters, "I see what you mean about why people might come seeking that. I had not been aware you were keeping the effects back so much."

There's a slight twinge to Aymeric's unsteady smile that might be guilt, hand faltering for the barest instant in its slow stroking. "I would never want to let something be uncomfortable for you if I had a choice. If you will forgive me for saying so, Estinien, sometimes, I think things being _too_ pleasant is a discomfort for you. So I chose to err in favor of a judicious caution." For a moment, there's the twist of intense _longing_ that slips through the scar and into the bond, an unintended revelation of just how difficult that restraint continues to be 

Estinien snorts indelicately, but then admits, mouth turning up to find a neck gone paler than what he once knew, brushing a brief kiss over it self-consciously before he speaks. "You are probably not wrong in that assessment. My captor and tormenter you may be, but I suppose you manage to be a kind enough one." He can only hope that the intent for his teasing not to actually sting is clear, softened by a second press of lingering lips.

It must be, at least enough, because there's a soft scoff of startled laughter before Aymeric relaxes again, seeming content merely to hold him near.

((-----))

When Aymeric refuses to return to the Cathedral the next day, Estinien starts to genuinely worry. Repeated attempts to point out the possible consequences are dismissed, again and again, with the quiet insistence that surely given his injury, a little more time away will be forgiven. The argument -- if it can even be called that, when it consists entirely of one of them railing and the other calmly ignoring -- persists throughout the day and only grows more intense. 

It's almost sunrise when the dragoon is at the point where he stands over Aymeric's desk in his office, frustration crackling under his skin like levin loosed from the clouds. "Don't give me that bullshit about it being forgiven for your wound! There's no way in this city that news doesn't get out that there was a healer here, assuming they don't just _ask him directly_ , and given what a big deal they make out of having _quality food_ , I'm fairly sure part of my purpose is supposed to be getting drained into unconsciousness if need be so you recover faster!"

The raven-haired figure at the desk is still unruffled, at least to the outward eye. There's an increasing sensation of tightness in his scar that makes Estinien draw the conclusion that his efforts at convincing the knight to reconsider aren't _completely_ ignored. Not that he admits to it. "Just because the assumption is that I will mistreat you to my own ends does not mean that I am obligated to go along with it."

Lips briefly curling back to bare teeth in frustration, Estinien has to pull away from the desk, stalking stiffly to the far side of the room to stare at the bookshelf. Not that he has much use for it, but it's move away or scream, because every instinct he has, either elezen or draconic in origin, is quite sure that it's not a question of _if_ something bad is going to happen, but _when_. He'd feel better if Aymeric at least agreed that perhaps wearing armor indoors was sometimes reasonable, although at least the vampire consented to let him drag his lance around, even if he clearly thought the idea was ludicrous. 

When he has regained enough of a hold over his temper to speak calmly (or at least to speak in no more than the tightly clipped tones of exasperation), the dragon-blooded intones darkly, "At least assure me that you have some plan for what to do if we realize it's no longer possible to stay here."

With the softest of sighs, like a parent engaged in indulgence of a petulant child, Aymeric folds his hands together and looks at him. "I have an idea where we could go first to likely find help to flee further. I also won't say more, because if--" There's a sudden flash of tension and heat through the bond, like a hand clenched around a soul too tight and too rough. "If you are placed to the question and I can not prevent it, it would be better for you not to know too many details, for your sake and my own."

Estinien stares starkly, midnight gaze gone flat and glazed with concern. Not just at the possibility suggested, but the idea that despite his insistences and evasions, Aymeric is still, on some level, afraid that he will fail. And that he still, foolishly, even after this most recent experience, assumes himself to be the functionally _safe_ one of the pair. Teeth all but gritted together, he growls in return, "So what happens if you get injured too badly to direct me again? We just sit in the streets of Ishgard and wait for their _mercies_? Either trust me fully, or don't trust me at all."

Even if the stark pain those words caused wasn't visible on Aymeric's face, he'd have felt it too, a lurching shock that washes through him like a gut punch. Estinien forces himself to hold steady and unswayed, eyes on the dark-haired man's own gaze until Aymeric swallows and looks away, to his shock, lips already forming an apology. "Forgive me. You are right, ignorance would be no protection for you at this point, and I am being--" He has to swallow again. "Foolish in attempting to believe I can keep you out of the worst of it, somehow." 

A second or two passes, then Aymeric rises and moves to stand before him, regret darkening the hue of his eyes as he searches Estinien's features. Despite his frustration, the dragoon finds himself too weak to not react at all, reaching to steady one hand against the knight's bicep, the touch light, but a center tenderness to the connection all the same. "So tell me, then. If I have to get you out of the city, where can I take you?"

"Camp Dragonhead. Not for long, but Haurchefant Greystone was an old friend and has not returned to the city since things changed in hopes of being able to stay that way." Estinien gives a small nod of his head, having almost expected that answer; there were only ever a few people Aymeric was _truly_ close to and with Lucia fled and Handeloup still working with him in his more official role…

"In short, they'll expect you to go there, but you trust that he'll be able to point the way to another safe spot." Aymeric gives a small nod of assent and Estinien slowly lets out the tension he's been holding, hand absently starting to stroke up and down the arm he holds without him being consciously aware of it. "I still think we would be better off if you just played along for now."

He wishes he was surprised at the stubborn refusal in the set of Aymeric's jaw. "I can not bear it anymore, Estinien. Not the misuse of the people, not the forced intimacy, not having to bend my head and cower."

Strain and guilt paints every word a darker tone, and it is hard for the silver-haired man not to soften, his own voice gentled by sympathy and urging for once. "Aymeric…"

"No. Not yet, at least." A quiet breath passes the vampire's lips and for a second, he leans in, resting his forehead against his bonded's. "I'm sorry. We should have a little time before the consequences are called in and I will do what I can to soften it." Estinien makes a faint rumble of assent, not pleased, but recognizing a point where flexibility doesn't seem to be currently possible. So he waits, braced in spirit, if not body, and stays close, praying that his faith will be met with just rewards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And speaking of indulgent. Ah. So if I go full horny on this -- okay when -- do people have a preference versus 'keep it Mature but not Explicit here, yeet the really detailed stuff into a side fic' versus 'BUMP UP THE RATING AND GIMME THAT RIGHT HERE'? Let me know. Or don't!
> 
> As I must, do consider a stop by the [Bookclub](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) Discord for FFXIV fic inspiration, chatter, and all that good stuff. Or to nag me, I'll probably forgive you for it. ;)
> 
> \---------------
> 
> There is a small companion piece to this chapter's end from Aymeric's POV, found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25924375).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning for (non-detailed) description of torture in this one, dear readers. I thought I'd maybe get to being smuttier but apparently the story wanted a little more hurt and comforting beforehand. Hopefully no one, um, minds? That might be the wrong way to phrase it.

Estinien wakes, trying to stretch out, and discovering that once again, Aymeric has latched onto him like some sort of strangling vine in sleep. On the whole, he has no real objection to the fact that after he undid the sofa being made up as a bed they've both just… quietly acted like doing it back up would be more bother than just having them both share Aymeric's bed. Even beyond the reasons he's still embarrassed by for enjoying it -- _the comforting feel of Aymeric's breath against his neck, waking in the middle of the morning and having nothing but the smell of Aymeric's skin fill his senses and bring them to aching awareness, the pleasure in holding and being held_ \--the bed is more comfortable, spacious, and with two people in it, generally _warmer_ than any of his prior sleeping arrangements. Still. He usually wakes first and is used to being able to get out of bed and find _food_ in a timely manner. This habit has been rather… disrupted. Sighing blearily, he begins the careful process of extracting himself from Aymeric's grip without waking him, shoving his pillow into the vampire's grip as a replacement. ( _Don't examine too closely why not waking him matters so much, why you don't want to disturb the way he looks so peaceful, almost divine when relaxed…_ )

Shaking off his irrational thoughts, Estinien sneaks his way off to eat and wash and get dressed. He's mostly done with these tasks when there's a sharp knock at the door to his own room, where he's returned to get clothes. Frowning, he pauses and finds a sweater, pulling it on over the lighter weight shirt beneath and goes to answer. The Steward is on the other side, his brow creased; whatever he has to say, he's a little uncomfortable with it. "Ser. There is someone at the back door for you. I explained the hour is yet early, but he is quite insistent. I'm concerned he may raise a scene if I do not fetch you."

For a second, Estinien stares, trying to imagine who could be here for him, then he realizes the only real way to know is to go and see. Sensible. He remembers how to be that, and not just swan around thinking about-- about-- Clearing his throat, he pulls his hair free, still not fully combed, and decides he can just leave it. "I'll go talk to them. Thank you for letting me know." He's not sure if that's the proper protocol, but he does try and treat the household employees respectfully, when he's not worked up and can remember it. Hopefully then his less pleasant moods will be forgiven.

When he reaches the designated door, tucked away near the servant's quarters and in a heavily shaded alleyway, he begins to understand when he catches a glimpse of familiar dark hair curling out under the edge of an overhanging hood. "Leomond? Is that you? Why in the seven hells are you here?" Estinien is regretting not having grabbed a weapon, now; the other bond-servant has seemed kind and rational so far, and his bonded is by far one of the better individuals in the Ward, but he's well past being willing to just _assume_ anyone's good will.

"Yes, but I'd prefer you not use my name." One hand lifts and the doe-eyed other man taps fingertips against one of his ears. He's clearly nervous too, gaze flitting constantly from one end of the alley to the other. "I was given permission, sort of, to bring you a warning."

Estinien goes very still, tension rattling along his nerves in a sharp jangle as all of his senses come on full alert. "A warning of what?"

Another careful glance to both directions. "Look. Everyone at the court knows the Lord de Borel doesn't want to go back to working with the faithful. Charibert's made his case that he ought to be recovered by now and that he should be allowed permission to sufficiently… motivate him as a final warning."

The tension ratchets down tighter, til his muscles practically keen with the strain. "What, precisely, does that mean?"

Leomond sucks in a breath and finally turns his gaze fully to the other man, pity in his eyes. "Thordan won't let him take you away this time and he was told no permanent damage. For what it's worth, I can tell you from experience that doing your best to hide your reaction is better. He enjoys it and takes longer if you're…. Entertaining. But Janlenoux… I… a few others who aren't…" He hesitates, then says simply, "Not everyone wants what Thordan and Charibert do, but most can't or won't refuse him. They respect Ser Aymeric's willingness to do so but most are afraid that if he's not prepared and this happens by surprise, he'll… overreact. So I'm telling you in hopes you can prevent that."

For several heartbeats, Estinien stares, then he groans and buries his face in his hands. "If the world is coming down to _my_ needing to keep _Aymeric_ calm and rational, I truly think that comet reset reality." There's a ghost of a smile on the other man's face, brief but honestly meant. 

"I need to go but be ready. I don't know when he'll be by, but we all assumed tonight."

Ruefully, Estinien huffs out a breath, then nods, voice rough. "Thank you. For taking the risk to tell me. I'll do what I can."

There's a quick nod, and another slight smile, and Leomond takes off. Staring at the disappearing form, Estinien wonders how much to trust in this apparent offered hand of… what would he call it? Not friendship, really. Allies, perhaps. If it's truly meant, it might help, but…

Groaning tiredly as he tries to think through all the possibilities, he decides the simplest answer is the best. Explain the whole damned situation to Aymeric and let _him_ work out what it means. That's what he's supposed to be good at anyway, right?

Returning upstairs, he is perhaps mildly disappointed at finding Aymeric already stirring groggily, one hand rubbing at his eyes. It's not that he wanted the excuse to touch him to wake him or kiss him awake or…

Alright, it's precisely that, and it makes him feel like he ought to be some sort of blushing maiden, and it's _humiliating_. Throwing himself down on the couch, he stares blandly towards the bed, or at least, he hopes his expression stays bland. "We just had a visitor with some supposed political news. You better get coherent fast because I'm probably gonna fuck it up if we just leave it to my instincts."

Propping himself up on his elbows amidst the pillows, Aymeric blinks at him sleepily, and once again, Estinien finds himself having to ruthlessly crush down soft upswells of emotions at the appearance of the dark-haired man, tousled from sleep and looking invitingly touchable. "... A visitor?"

"Yeah. Ser Janelenoux's bonded and to make the story short, I was right, and Thordan is pissed off you won't go use the faithful as food. So your favorite member of the Ward is probably gonna show up tonight and utilize me to _persuade_ you." As he more than expected, that's plenty of information to ensure that Aymeric is instantly fully awake and for that matter, already scrambling from the bed, stalking across the floor toward him, stiff spined. Estinien tries _very hard_ not to let himself get distracted in watching all the movement of well-formed muscles, nevermind the possessive anger on Aymeric's features that sends thrills through him that are only very minutely about fear.

"I believe I made it _extremely_ clear to Charibert what my feelings were about any attempt he made to touch you. If he comes to _my territory_ to do it, I ought to be allowed to kill him for daring." Oh, yes, there's a deep-seated growling vibration that deepens the vampire's voice to black velvet, smooth and lovely and ominous. Estinien finds that he has to lick his lips before he can focus to answer.

"Or, you could remember we're trying to lie low and you agreed that fighting back against him would cause a more direct conflict than you can afford." Tilting his chin up very slightly, defiant, the dragoon finds his voice softening. "He's only going to hurt me, Aymeric. I can't say I'm happy about that, but you know what my training was like. I can handle it and if it lets everyone keep underestimating you, that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Aymeric stops at his feet, looming over him, pale blue eyes searching and scathing all at once, conflicted. It's clear he both recognizes the truth in the words and that a great deal of him is fighting against it anyway, an internal struggle he can't easily resolve. Drawing in an uneven breath, he lets it out, head shaking and making the crystal dangling from his earlobe sway. "What if I am not willing to sacrifice your comfort? I have done enough to you and while I appreciate how much you have come to accept it, I can't ask you for that, Estinien. I have to maintain a few rules for myself. I won't ask more from you than is needed for your safety, and I won't let you suffer needlessly for me when I could stop it."

Scowl twisting his lips, Estinien leans forward, reaching to find and take one of Aymeric's hands in his. "I may not have chosen to be bonded, but I am making my own choice in this. I would much rather be in pain than have both of us be put at risk when I could easily stop it." He squeezes the callused fingers in his, feeling the strength, feeling his own in the grip of battered knuckles. Attempting a joke, he suggests, darkly, "Wear black. That way if I end up bloody, at least I won't ruin more of your clothes."

_That_ might have been a slight misjudgement. There's a loud, angry growl, then Aymeric is upon him, kneeling straddling his lap on the sofa, hands pressing down hard on his shoulders to force him against the back. For a second, the vampire stares down at him, panting, eyes alight like winter stars, then he's even closer, lips pressing hard to Estinien's, unforgiving and devouring, a kiss more about rough possession and need and fear than anything soft, like he's trying to press them together with all the force of a tidal wave coming in against the cliffside. When the touch relents, Aymeric barely withdraws, a mere hairsbreadth, words breathed against lips in uncompromising promise. "You are _mine_ , and if I can show it yet no other way, understand I will remember _everything_ he dares to do to you, and he will pay. He will _never_ be allowed to take you away from me, and if your informant was wrong and he tries, I _will_ fight, and I _will_ kill him if need be. Short of that, I acknowledge that you are probably correct, and I shall do my best to restrain my desire to immediately show him the folly of his actions."

It's not as strong a promise as Estinien might have liked. It's also more than he dared to hope for. Sometimes, these are the compromises that are made, to stay sane in a world gone strange. Lifting his head minutely, he presses lips back to Aymeric's, softer than the way he was kissed, trying to let the gesture show his trust and appreciation of the way the other man so openly is able to _feel_ for him, to share longing and regret and the thousand silent wishes he doesn't even dare whisper to himself. In all likelihood, he can't manage that, but he at least conveys enough clearly of his own feelings that he slowly feels a little of the tension drain from Aymeric. Settling back against the cushions, he says softly, "Go ahead and get dressed and we can begin the misery of waiting, Borel." 

There's a brief scofflaw of laughter, rough and rueful, and Aymeric nods, going to prepare himself for their likely visitor. When he returns, now clad in trousers and a black linen shirt under a doublet of the same hue, the vampire warns, sounding very apologetic, "I won't feed from you if you might need your own strength today to recover. Some of the servants are willing, especially as it comes with a bonus to their pay, so I will take one of them up on that."

Estinien feels his fists clench before he can consciously stop it, the intense flash of jealousy that accompanies the gesture slicing at him deeply. He slowly drags in and releases a breath, knowing it's irrational, but unable to look at Aymeric as he struggles to tamp the feeling back down. "I… Yes, that's probably the right call." A right call that he _violently loathes_ , but…

His musing is interrupted by strong fingers beneath his chin, tilting it up until his deep blue meets the far paler hue of the vampire's eyes. Aymeric's voice is softer now, almost wondering. "I should not enjoy seeing you get so jealous over the idea of sharing my bite, but I must confess, I very much like knowing how dearly you want to be the only one I touch." Those fingers stroke along the lines of his jaw, up to ghost over lips, and Estinien finds himself swallowing hard, heat rising in his face he struggles to remember how to form words. "I assure you, when I must turn to anyone else for sustenance, I will be exceptionally _restrained_. Some things, I keep for you."

Actually, Estinien decides that words are altogether _far_ too difficult to bother with, and instead, knowing that he's blushing, he briefly presses his lips into Aymeric's fingertips, half not caring at how subservient the gesture seems, and half… well, he's starting to really struggle to not acknowledge the part of himself that finds that part of the thrill, that coils and tenses into a simmering cauldron of heat low in his gut when he's reminded of the feeling of being owned and not just able to show his own emotions, but all but being _made_ to. He has no doubt there's cracks in his facade when the vampire regretfully pulls away, leaving to go seek enough of a meal that he will be ready for what comes, and once he's alone, Estinien feels a need to spend several minutes standing leaning against the cold, chilled stone of the window frame.

((-----))

The night all but drags by in tension; knowing that something bad is likely coming, but not when, is far from a recipe for a pleasant evening, and every attempt that Estinien makes to keep himself busy is an utter failure. He doesn't want to read, he doesn't dare be practicing and have a weapon nearby if Aymeric _doesn't_ manage to keep his temper, he can't eat or play cards or… Well, really, anything but pace back and forth in Aymeric's office and do his best to wear his way through the carpeting, much to the vampire's apparent exasperation, given how often he looks up from his own book to glare. He hasn't tried to make him stop, though.

When a harsh knock _finally_ echoes through the house as someone slams a fist against the front door, they both straighten with a mix of tension and relief, bodies confused and uncertain. Then there's a servant at the door, panting, wide-eyed, and it's clear that Charibert hasn't exactly announced his intentions in a _subtle_ manner. "M'lord? One of the Ward is here and says he must see both of you at once, or we're all to pay for it!" 

With a low growl, Aymeric rises, his gaze flashing to Estinien, then his public mask of calm settling over his face. "We are on our way. Take as many of the others as you can and stay in the back until he leaves, please, I would not want anyone to be hurt unnecessarily in the good Ser's excess enthusiasm for his work. No matter what, _stay out of the way until he leaves_." The servant swallows and darts off again. Aymeric follows, more sedately, still apparently contained.

_Estinien_ feels no need to contain his feelings, personally. He slinks in Aymeric's wake like a hunting hound, jaw tense, his eyes steeled with distaste. That's just as well. When they reach the front foyer, he can see Charibert's brief reaction of annoyance to Aymeric's calm, as well as the slight smug expression at catching his own open hatred. Good. It's much better if the mage focuses on tormenting _him_.

"Ah, there's the elusive Ser Aymeric and his little snarling toy. And after we'd all gone and assumed you must have been far more _terribly_ injured to have been avoiding your duties so. Truly, giving up after a single gunshot? Such weakness deserves to be purged. Alas, I am not to do so _just_ yet." Charibert's preternaturally pale lips stretch wide, baring fangs as he smiles at that idea, at anticipation of the opportunity to stretch his skills.

If Aymeric still looks calm, it has no bearing on his actual state; Estinien can feel the scar pulsing in alternating waves of heat and cold, rage and concern, all mixed with a sensation all too akin to nausea. The fact that none of that shows in his voice is truly astounding; the idea that he can do so much when he considers his willpower to have been terribly damaged by his transformation is a testament to just how much internal strength Aymeric really has, for all he cannot see it. "I rather thought it was more than enough reason to need a few days to recuperate. After all, seeing me injured might be upsetting to the populace. Do you have an actual message to deliver or are you just here to gloat?"

Charibert lifts one hand, displaying a worked gold… truthfully, Estinien has no word for what it is, other than perhaps _device_ , set with a dark, angular crystal, not like the drawings he's seen of the bonding ones, but a hue so deep that it may even be black. "Oh, no, not just that. I've been authorized to deliver… _persuasion._ " The mage thumbs something on the small device and it hums to life. The moment it does, a pulse of dark magic fills the air, snapping into place in wide bands around Aymeric's torso and arms, holding him in place. The dragoon's stomach starts to sink as he realizes that, clearly, there was already enough awareness after Aymeric's little display the last time they were at court that additional insurance was given to guarantee he could not refuse the lesson that was coming, or protect his bonded in any way. Or perhaps this is standard, when the vampires act against one another, instead of just tormenting those inarguably weaker.

If he was not who and what he is, Estinien might have thought of running. A dragoon has long since learned to stop fearing for their life when facing certain danger, however, even learned to chase after it with head held high. Bracing himself for what's to come, the silver-haired man moves deliberately to place himself between Charibert and Aymeric, even as he feels the vicious burn of protestation through his bonding scar. "Which means you get to torture someone, just like you enjoy." His voice is steady and calm as well as he starts to pull sweater and shirt off over his head, midnight eyes returning to the mage challengingly. "Fine. I'm here. Just get it over with."

As he more than half-expected, the refusal to show fear or avoidance clearly angers the Ward mage, who snaps his fingers, flame starting to circle around them in wreaths. Cold eyes narrow, considering him. "It is unusual for a heretic to be so _eager_ to be re-educated. Goodness, Ser Aymeric, what sort of things _are_ you doing with your toys to pervert them like this?" Estinien winces, feeling the surge of white-hot anger as Aymeric throws himself against the magical bonds around him, a low, incoherent growl rising in volume as if he is some form of great wyrm himself. _That_ pleases Charibert, thin lips starting to smile again as he points to the ground in front of himself. "Quiet, boy. I'm doing this for your own good, after all. As for you, slave, kneel."

The urge to refuse to obey the command is strong even without the constant distracting pressure of Aymeric's overwhelming anger, and Estinien takes a deep breath as he reminds himself of Leomond's warning and his own desire to not let Aymeric be drawn into a confrontation he can't win. Movements stiff, he carefully drops to his knees, unable to silence a hiss of distaste when the mage's unlit hand reaches down and shoves his hair forward over his shoulders, baring his back. Muscles tensing with anticipation and frustration, the dragon-blooded locks his eyes onto his vampire partner, hoping that keeping the reason he's enduring this in the forefront of his gaze and mind will make it a little easier.

Maybe it does, but it's still a shock of sharp pain when flames lick across his shoulders. Distantly, a corner of his mind notes just how much control Charibert does have; the sensation is exceptionally painful, but the heat or contact is kept at a level where it feels more like a bad sunburn, skin turning red and swelling, likely to blister in a few spots, but nowhere at the level of practically _cooking_ that it was when he had grabbed his arm. Scraping in deep breaths through his nose and clenched teeth to try and keep from making any other sound, Estinien tightens his fists, nails digging into his palms as the flame slowly moves on, drawing strange patterns across his arms, shoulders, back.

He's so focused on the burning and doing his best to ignore it that he misses the sudden widening in Aymeric's eyes and the start of a protest that is cut off by another of the bands of dark magic snapping into place over the dark-haired man's mouth. He does _not_ miss the reason when, a split-second later, a knife blade slashes across the front of his torso, opening a long, shallow bleeding line along the length of one of his collarbones.

It's mostly surprise that makes him cry out in pain and while Estinien is quick to snap his jaw closed again, he can hear an increased pace in Charibert's breathing at that reaction. The mage steps around to his side, reaching down to drag a finger through the spreading blood. "Fools. There's more than one way to not cause permanent damage, and I'm not some single trick show chocobo. Besides…" He smiles, slow and vicious, and dimly, the dragoon becomes aware that what's coming through the bond now is as much near panic as anger. It's dizzying, and distracting, and when Charibert licks his finger clean, he thinks Aymeric may manage to murder him with the sheer force of his hatred. "You just said I shouldn't let my fangs touch him, not that I couldn't have a little taste, right?"

Hatred that only gets worse, because there's more cutting and burning that follows, and the sickening feeling of a tongue lapping clean the results. By the time Charibert decides that he's done, Estinien is swaying, dazed from the ongoing pain and horrifying false intimacy. A heavy hand pats the top of his head, no doubt leaving behind smears of blood, as the vampire mage straightens up once more. "Lovely. And still so far from being properly broken. Oh, _do_ continue to refuse to do what's asked of you, Ser Aymeric, please, because next time, I get to take him for a few days." There's a faint clicking sound as he presses a button on the gemstoned device before returning it to his pocket. "Those will fade soon enough, but I thought it wisest to be sure you couldn't do anything until I was gone." He smiles, smug and happy, and turns to leave, the door swinging shut with a heavy thud. 

A great deal of Estinien finds he would very much prefer the idea of staying in place and not moving until some of the pain fades or he gets enough control over it to shove it aside. Unfortunately, while that may be the larger part of him, it's not the loudest part, which is screaming at him to get to his feet and get to Aymeric and be sure his attention is _where it ought to be_. He realizes, after he manages to force himself to stagger upright, that he may have over-assumed the need on that front, because even if vividly alight with power, the vampire's gaze is locked on him, worry having overwhelmed the anger. Shivering now with the flames gone and the air chill against his burned skin, the dragoon stumbles the few steps forward necessary to let him rest his hands on Aymeric's shoulders and lean forehead to forehead, sucking in rasping breaths of air as he waits for the magical bindings to dispel, taking what comfort he can even in the nearness.

A minute or two passes. Suddenly, there's a faint whiff of oily smoke, and broad hands settle to bracket his hips, taking some of the burden of bearing his weight off of him. Surprisingly soft in voice, other than a raspy edge that suggests he might have been screaming against the gag at some point, the vampire murmurs gently. "It's alright, Estinien… I am here and while I remember and mean to keep my promises, that can wait. I want to tend to you." 

Estinien finds he can manage a rather shaky burst of laughter. "Good. I was--" He pauses, sucking in another breath, then carefully pushing back against the pain, settling in to being able to reduce it to background noise. "Worried I might. Bleed all over your good carpet." The sound he gets in response to that is less than happy, but it's not _his_ fault that Aymeric refuses to have a black sense of humor about these things.

"As if the carpeting would ever be my concern over you." The vampire is gentle in his scolding, as he starts to guide Estinien towards the bathroom, his expression mildly twisted by guilt, but mostly focused for now on the more immediate matter of caretaking. Once they manage to navigate the stairs, an affair made more complicated by the degree of concern Aymeric shows in not risking touching anywhere that Estinien might be injured yet and with the hips and bottom not precisely the best _stabilizing_ areas for touches, the dragon-blooded is left to sit on the edge of the tub as his bonded disappears to retrieve the essentials of wound care.

Dimly, he is aware that the fact that he's not tracking time quite as well as he should indicates that he's probably still having to put more effort into suppressing his pain than he wants to admit he is. When Aymeric returns, he gives the shorter man a slow, slightly blurry blink and is surprised when he sets his supplies aside and instead of immediately setting to work, the vampire leans over and claims a long, soft kiss from him, a wordless expression of gratitude and regret and bone deep _care_. Strangely, the sheer impossible _tenderness_ of it seems to make the pain worse, as it peels back and away the layers of armored refusal to admit to feeling anything usually forms around him. When Aymeric pulls back, he's breathing raggedly, not from arousal this time, but because he's suddenly too fully _in_ the world as his bonded starts to gently work a wet cloth over his wounds.

Neither of them seem overly inclined to talk, Estinien dully lifting arms or moving when Aymeric needs to reach a new spot, first cleaning, then salving and bandaging. When broad fingers stop near a wound on his upper arm, he blinks heavily, catching the apologetic look on too-pretty sculpted features. "... What's'it?" The dragoon winces a bit at realizing he's slurring his words, trying not to give in to the rising shame at showing his discomfort.

"The slash is deep enough and wide enough I think I need to stitch it. Can you handle that, or should I bring you something to dull the pain and your senses first?" 

That brings it into the realm of a _challenge_ and Estinien feels his awareness sharpen. "I've sewn up my own damn wounds plenty of times without anything to dull the feeling. Might as well just do it." He's not sure that's the smartest call, but he feels better with it then the idea of dulling himself further yet. 

Even if Aymeric has a slight tension line between his brows that suggests he doesn't fully agree with that choice, he does not actually argue it out loud and instead threads the needle, using a clean bandage to dab the wound and then holding it closed as he starts to fasten the skin with quick, neat stitches. It's not a pleasant sensation, but it's a familiar one; this is far from the first time one of them has had to sew up the other, even if the last time was back in their days as temple knights together. When finished, Aymeric bandages that spot as well, finally going to wash his hands -- yet _again_ \-- and replacing the supplies in their box.

On return, he laces his fingers into Estinien's, clutching at him tightly this way to, he suspects, make up for feeling like he can't pull the wounded dragoon into his arms. Lifting hands to his lips, the pain and the strange intimacy of being fussed over having kept his barriers weaker, Estinien brushes a kiss over each of the knuckles, a silent display of appreciation and affection that is easier than trying to find words to say the same. Aymeric's eyes crinkle at the corner, a slight show of humor finally, and he returns the gesture before speaking, his voice still full of that quiet and steady caring. "If I swear to sit with you and hold you if you doze off, will you agree to take something for the pain now? There's no reason for you to keep enduring it; the 'lesson' is finished, and we should be safe for the rest of this night, at least. So please, as a favor to me, let me see to it that you won't suffer to further needless excess."

A little color floods into Estinien's face, making him marvel at least a little that he's still capable of blushing. Or has enough blood for it. Ruefully, he considers his aching and stinging body and weighs it against the image of being curled in bed with Aymeric, sore, but feeling safe and coddled. _Damn it all_. Maybe he is growing weak, but the appeal is impossible to deny. "Fine. But you will _stay_ here and not go out without me or try anything stupid. Can you promise that?"

"Very easily. I will be by your side, my dear." Aymeric's voice catches on the last word, almost breaks, and Estinien realizes it slipped out without him meaning to openly do so. Smirking, he carefully braces and pushes himself to his feet, reaching to take the vampire's arm for support without the self-consciousness he would usually feel.

"I'm not--" The dragoon pauses for a moment, realizing the irony of his making this statement, then he sighs and forges on, "I'm not going to mind if you're… affectionate… when we're alone, you know. I do--" Estinien has to pause again, struggling to think of how to say this without feeling the fool, and eventually deciding that it might as well not matter, with Aymeric waiting patiently, "Enjoy it. A lot." To try and cover for his body's insistent attempts to further blush, he tugs on the vampire's arm, urging him to move them back toward their -- towards _Aymerics's_ \-- room.

It helps that the dark-haired man's exquisitely crafted features are set in an expression of such surprise that Estinien might as well have hit him in the face with a shovel instead. Is he really _that_ bad at openly stating his feelin--- Oh. Right. He is. Well. Thankfully, the recovery is quick enough and it was probably all worth it, even the burning and the bleeding, for the fact that by the time he's been coaxed into drinking a draught of pain-killer that leaves him fuzzy-minded and weary, then settled carefully into bed with Aymeric, bandaged and wounded torso carefully resting against the vampire's scarred bare chest as Aymeric runs fingers over his hair and ears in soothing touches, the other man still keeps breaking into a small, beatific smile when he thinks it's not going to be caught. 

He can live with pain, now and then, or a lot more often, if it is the price he pays for the bravery to make Aymeric look that young and happy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per tradition, my deepest thanks to [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) for inspiration and support, as well as my regular commentators -- I appreciate everyone who says something so, so, so very much, but in particular, Anguines, Bluerhythms, Ivalene (MY DISCORD DARLING), SeeTheLight, SylviaViridan, I smile every time I see one of your names and know you're still reading and enjoying. Thank you so much. <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hi, um... So... if you weren't hoping for the NSFW parts, uh... come back next chapter.
> 
> (If you WERE looking forward to them, um, hi, welcome, I hope you're not disappointed?)
> 
> Special thanks to friends who betaed to catch some of my typos. <3

Dusk comes all too soon, amidst a distinctive amount of aching and discomfort from his wounds. Estinien groans softly and presses his face down into the pillo-- nope, Aymeric's shoulder. Hmmm. Better than the pillow, really. Still half-asleep and uncomfortable, he nuzzles mindlessly against the bare skin, carefully resettling himself to try and find a way to lie that takes some of the pressure off of his wounds. 

Perhaps he should have guessed that Aymeric was sleeping shallowly already, since he didn't wake with the vampire clinging to him like ivy, other than one hand tangled into the long strands of his hair. That doesn't stop the slight surge of guilt when the other man stirs, blinking slowly at him, eyes like chips of sunlit ice behind rook-feather lashes. "Estinien…" The hand starts to work its way free, a tongue washing over paled lips. "Did you need another draught?" It's clear he's drawing into full awareness quickly, and with a sigh, the dragon-blooded pulls himself away and up from leaning against him, moving carefully so as not to pull too much on anything.

"Don't like the ones that mess with your head." Estinien argues on general principle, carefully rolling first one shoulder, then the other, feeling the extent to which he's sore and limited in motion. Bad, but it definitely could be worse. He purses his lips a bit in thought. "If it'll keep you from fussing, I'll take some willow-bark tea or a healing potion."

Frowning a little, Aymeric follows him in sitting, one hand falling to rest on the dragoon's knee as the vampire watches over his movements protectively. "It would keep me from fussing. I also think…" He takes a careful breath, and Estinien tenses, already sure he's going to hear something he isn't going to like. "I should go to the Cathedral and resume my… work." The vampire can't quite suppress a grimace at the words, his gaze dark with regret. "And you will _stay here_ and recover, because I will not have you putting your armor on over those wounds."

Nope, he doesn't like that possibility _at all_. Estinien's hands clench into fists and he leans in, pressing a hand down on top of Aymeric's as if to anchor him in place. "You said you couldn't bear doing that anymore. And need I remind you, _twice_ you have been attacked on your way there or back, even with my accompaniment as a guard."

A slight shake of a head, dark locks fluttering minutely with the motion. "I hate it, yes. But I hate knowing that… _this_ … happened because of my distaste when I could have prevented it, if I should have just been brave enough to accept a little more personal suffering for your sake, as you did for me." His free hand comes up, curling over a cheek still tanned by the sun, thumb tracing the line of Estinien's cheekbone. "Forgive me, my dear, but I will make you stay if I have to. I will bring guards, I will be as careful as possible, but whether or not you see it this way, in my heart, I owe you at least this much."

Teeth bared to growl a retort, Estinien falls silent when fingers move further to press over his lips, Aymeric's slight, sad smile tearing at him like a windstorm of dagger blades. He feels the gentle pressure of will imposed over his own, not so strong he couldn't fight back, but enough he can't easily resist. "Stay here on the house grounds. No armor, no practicing with your lance. I'd tell you to try and relax, but that might be a bit much." There's no hope of resisting his urge to glare at that, deep blue meeting pale with an almost visible spark. It only makes the smile turn less sad and more true, and _damn the man_ for being so fond of him that trying to point out when he's being an idiot just pleases him.

Finally, Estinien just huffs out a breath against the fingers and mutters, "I'll stay tonight, provided I see you actually leave with guards. But if I sense that you're in trouble…" He lifts his head minutely, jaw setting in a line that is as stubborn and unforgiving as the curve of a cliff face.

"Of course." Aymeric agrees, too easily, and leans to press a soft kiss to the dragon-blooded's cheek. "I will stay as little time as I may; I too would rather that I was here with you."

((-----))

It may have been just as well that Aymeric provided enforcement for the idea of staying in the house, no matter how gentle, because by the second bell, Estinien is ready to admit that he might have left to go after him as much from sheer restless boredom as his both desire and duty to protect. He finally manages to force himself to settle with a deck of cards and a game of solitaire, after several abortive attempts at reading. Even a favorite poet is unable to hold his interest, although if anyone asked, he would probably swear under every body part Halone possesses that he has no such thing.

Finally, he feels an increased sense of _presence_ that means that his bondmate must be nearing the manor and the game is abandoned, half-finished, still spread out on the table by the fire in Aymeric's bedchamber as he slinks downstairs, having at least changed into a fresh pair of socks and trousers and sweet-talked (bullied, more like) a maid into giving him a plain shirt to wear, on the argument that he couldn't risk bleeding all over his nice things. By the time the front door creaks open, Estinien is leaning against the far wall of the foyer, ostensibly because he has to be certain that his partner has made it home safely in one piece. ( _Not_ because he missed him, surely, and _not_ because there's a strange, soft glow of contentment at the idea of welcoming Aymeric _home_.)

Much to his relief, the vampire is indeed whole and even hale, even if he isn't dressed in armor like Estinien would have preferred. That doesn't hide that there's a tired haze in his pale blue gaze that dampens the color or that there are soft lines of worry etched into his brow. Even if it went well, his statements about his feelings on this particularly onerous duty have always been honest. Sweeping his eyes down, the dragoon considers and pronounces dourly, "Well, you did come back safely, at least." Despite his dismissive words, he rests one hand against Aymeric's back as he approaches, drawing a slow line down along the curve of his spine. "I assume you're more than capable of being sure I did as promised." There's perhaps a small thorn of resentment in that; one day, he'll probably have a real storm of an argument with Aymeric about assuming and imposing what he thinks is best, but that's some other time.

Flushing minutely at the barbed reminder, Aymeric makes a soft sound of agreement, stopping to discard his boots for stockinged feet. "Ah. Yes." Recovering himself once those are stored away, he reaches to claim one of Estinien's hands, squeezing it with his own. "It is done for tonight, at least."

Following as the lord of the manor leads the way back upstairs, Estinien tries to take in the subtler signs he's learned to notice; a slight flush of warmth to skin, movements just a little more relaxed. Fed enough, at least, then, and he's a little resentful, even if he suspects it was meant partially as a kindness to have an excuse not to _overtax_ him and partially as a way for Aymeric to punish himself. Trust Borel to apply guilt to every possible situation.

Yet despite all his thoughts, Estinien makes no protest when Aymeric digs out a stashed bottle of wine, just like when they were younger, and settles to sit on the couch. Truthfully, he didn't even need the bottle waggled in the air in invitation to head to join him, even if he appreciates the touch of denial it gives him. Not much denial, given that Aymeric has sprawled with one arm draped over the side of the couch and the other along the back; to get near the bottle, he has to tuck himself within that arm, as if he needs the lure. He snags the wine and takes a swig before settling to lean gingerly against the vampire's side, not at all surprised when the arm on the sofa back is rapidly exchanged for the role of 'arm clasped around his shoulders'.

That's alright; if his presence comforts Aymeric, it's only fair, after all.

((-----))

The pattern is quickly formed as three more nights go by the same; Aymeric insists on leaving and making Estinien rest and go slowly insane with boredom, followed by quiet hours talking together and, equally frustrating, Aymeric insisting on very _carefully_ kissing and teasing without ever doing anything that might worsen the dragoon's injuries. By the fourth night, Estinien is, quite frankly, near certain he's going to expire either from boredom or sexual frustration. He's used to the first being a problem when injured. The second… well… Aymeric has always had an effect on him like no-one else, even if he used to be able to convince himself it was solely about friendship.

Well. It wasn't the first time he's gotten so good at lying to himself he'd forgotten the truth until forced. The more immediate concern is how to try and trap two birds in one snare and solve _both_ problems, which while a very desirable goal also requires him to also be at least somewhat… forward. Which he swears he can do, he's a _dragon-slayer_ , he isn't a frightened child, and this is _not_ completely foreign territory. It's just that it's, well, _Aymeric_ , and again, that seems to make all the difference, as it always has.

Right. Bravery. As it has each successive night, Aymeric's expression is more haunted and closed off when he returns home and the desire to truly wipe away that sadness is enough to mesh further steel into his spine. When they've retreated upstairs, he pulls the wine away before Aymeric can uncork it -- he's not sure that he likes that _that_ is becoming a nightly habit either -- and sets the bottle down on the table. The vampire's pale eyes, already narrow, slim further as he squints at him, and Estinien tries to keep his expression smooth and, most importantly, _not blushing in any way_ as he flops to sprawl bonelessly on the couch, wiggling a little against the back as if to demonstrate that he _is_ healing and able to tolerate more. "You can't come home and just drink merlot and tease me _every_ night." Despite the gentle barb in his words, he holds hands out in invitation, trying to lure the knight to join him. Which is an easy enough thing to do, since that is part of the habit as well, Aymeric's descent to the cushions distinctly slower and more elegant before he uses the hands he took to pull the dragon-blooded in closer, stealing a quick, light kiss that nevertheless results in an uptick in the shuddering pace of heartbeats.

"Can I not? I had been rather under the impression you were appreciative enough of the teasing." Aymeric murmurs, and he would be convincingly bored if it wasn't for a sudden taut tension and sense of anticipation that ripples through the bonding scar, enough to make the hair stand up on the dragoon's arms. 

A low growl drawing uneven ridges through his voice as he speaks, Estinien mutters, "Teasing is acceptable… to a certain point. Then it becomes a torment." 

He's already regretting the admission when Aymeric pulls him in closer, wrapping arms around the other man's torso so he can turn to press lips against the shell of an ear, dragging them along the edge as he whispers, breath too warm, "Is that your way of hinting that you want me to end your torment, my dear?" Estinien is not surprised when the reaction of his body to that wins out over the attempts of his mind to restrain it, a rough groan slipping from his lips before he can press them together. When Aymeric pulls back slightly to regard him, his lips curl at the edges, as pleased as the cat in the cream, the blue of his eyes as charged as levin bolts. "Oh, it _is_. Lovely." One hand traces a slow pattern over a side, slightly dragging and bunching at the dragoon's shirt, that slight teasing lilt still in every syllable, "Ah, but do you know what, precisely, it is you want from me?"

It's not an irrelevant question, and one Estinien had been half-prepared for. He's still hoping to get away from answering it out loud, hard-worn fingers curling into Aymeric's hair, giving a light tug on the soft night-black strands to try and coax him back for a kiss. Instead, there's a soft flex of powerful muscles and a soft laugh against his ear. "Words, Estinien. They have their uses." So do teeth, it appears, as a set with two edges a little too sharp drags over the lobe of his ear, just short of hard enough to mark it, then Aymeric continues, a voice of smoke and sacred, burning things that could intoxicate the blood. "Are you hoping to finally have my hands on you, stroking you off? Dreaming of the exquisite risk of my mouth? Or are you so desperate you're secretly begging for the moment I take you and make you mine in truth?" He had _not_ been prepared for that voice whispering filthy things in his ear, of the evocation of images and desires that have always slipped behind his eyelids when he neared his peak, coming unbidden and unasked while he tried to dismiss them as mere coincidence. Eyes pressing shut and a soft tremor shaking his lean body, Estinien turns his head slightly to bury his nose in Aymeric's hair, breathing in the scent of him as eagerly as he does the air.

His own voice is raspy, almost thready, and it's humiliating but there is no hope of controlling it. "Any of those. All of those. Halone's fucking _tits_ , Aymeric, I just want you to…" A hard swallow, the next words feeling like he's tossing his lance to his feet in a spar, half-finished and hard-pressed and leaving himself needlessly, senselessly vulnerable, and _oh_ , he hadn't meant to be _this honest_ , but with that sweet syrup voice pouring through his veins, how can he do ought be obey the draw it's always had? "Do what you will with me."

There's a soft hiss of indrawn breath by his ear and suddenly Aymeric is drawing back. Estinien's eyes fly open, worried, and he reaches out again instinctively, reassured when Aymeric catches one hand in his own. The vampire looks to him intently, searching his features as if expecting there to be some hidden trick, and as the seconds tick by, the dragoon starts to wilt with shame and fear, gaze turning down and away. When it does, joined hands are lifted, pushing his chin back up, and lips press to his, firm and devout and thankfully, relievingly, _eager_.

The kiss broken, Aymeric's voice is less exquisitely threaded with arousal now, but warmer, something fragile and wondering in it. "Estinien. I knew you had desires too, but I didn't realize… I didn't think…" The pad of a thumb slowly traces the shape of his lower lip as Aymeric speaks, and he can feel heat rising in his skin. He can all but see words being chosen, selected with as much care as before a great speech. "You truly wish to _choose_ to give yourself to me? I would not have asked for it; it is too much after what I have taken, but…" A hard swallow, even so that he can see the lord's throat swell and bob with the force of it, that voice grown even quieter, soft with understated shame. "I would not ask that indulgence, that you let me fully give in to my longing to _possess_ you, in every way possible."

"Even if I desire it?" Every ilm of him is painted scarlet, he's sure, with heat and embarrassment and a growing, terrifying _need_ , and Estinien is sure his words are not enough, inadequate. And yet. He can see the increasing rise and fall of Aymeric's chest, feel the increasing tautness of fingers gripping his shirt, hear the rasp of fabric on fabric as the knight leans closer to him.

"If you are sure, I will not ask, but there is _nothing_ I want more." For Aymeric, the words are stark and bare, stripped of so much of his usual grace and certainty, raw emotion bubbling to the surface. Locking midnight and ice, Estinien nods slowly, clearly, not sure he trusts his own throat.

It doesn't matter for long. Almost as soon as that assent is given, he's dragged forward, Aymeric's lips crashing against his. It's past eager, past firm; being granted lease has loosed him like a beast from a cage, and if it was possible to be consumed this way, he's sure he _would_ be, the mouth against his alight with need. Hands abandon their earlier goals, bracket his chin, and desperately, devoutly, divinely, Aymeric kisses him until he forgets to breathe, forgets to think, forgets about anything but plush lips, the caress of tongues, the delicate pressure of teeth nipping his lower lip and the harder pressures of his own in return. 

On the final release, breath heaving as it returns to aching lungs, Aymeric murmurs thickly, "Shirt off." Despite the seeming intent for it to be a command, his hands are already dragging fabric upwards, impatient and eager for bared flesh. When the opportunity presents itself, Estinien reaches to tug at the lord's clothing in return, lifting one snowdrift eyebrow in a silent questioning reminder. It serves its purpose, as the vampire strips to the waist as well. There's a moment of hesitation, of pressing nearer, and Estinien reaches with a fingertip, tracing the route of a ragged scar that angles across Aymeric's shoulder, remembering the long-ago battle that had birthed it.

Hands flutter against his own skin, touch very light, almost nervous with the still healing injuries, and with a low rumble, the dragoon asks, "May I…?" Perhaps he's not sure what he is asking, and perhaps Aymeric isn't either, but there's a soft nod of assent all the same. Almost shy now, Estinien leans in, dragging his lips along the length of that scar, feeling the slight rough rise against the smoother surrounding skin. He already knew that touching Aymeric was like stroking silk, and it is all too easy to follow the allure of tracing the other patterns he finds, slowly seeking out scars one by one, pressing adoration into the married skin with his hands and lips. There are _so many_ now, and it makes his heart ache, not just the old, well-worn in marks of knighthood, but still-pink ridges, and all too often, the too tight skin or raised bumps that accompany old burns. Not dragon fire, which he knows of each time it has touched the knight's body -- and in what back corner of his mind has he been rationalizing that knowledge, his devotional litany of records of each time Aymeric had been hurt badly enough to scare him? No, these too, are newer, too small, too controlled… too much the _permanent damage_ they were promised not to face.

So he reshapes them, the only way he can, by showing how everything that has happened, the reforging of the great blade that guides his heart, has in no way diminished the allegiance of his soul, the _affection_ that underlies it all. As his lips skim across the curve of the vampire's belly, the muscle beneath flutters like a nervous chocobo's flank, a hand lifting to stroke his hair, the other drawing gentle, cautious patterns over his shoulders. Other than the pops and soft susurrus of the burning logs in the fireplace, the only thing audible is faint, ragged panting, evidence that this show of private worship is having no small effect on his lord. 

Aymeric is, if anything, patient longer than he expects with this slow teasing, but in time, the hand on his head turns into a gently knotted fist, tangled in strands like moonlight on snow. "I want to touch you. And given your injuries…" Half-guided into looking up, Estinien blinks slowly at Aymeric's hooded gaze, incandescent with emotion. "Strip all the way and I will join you on the bed." Like the earlier order, this one comes with no true push of command; or at least, none beyond the dragon-blooded's own instincts and desires, which are making it quite clear that obeying Aymeric's words is _very_ much a choice they would like to make. Thus, self-consciously, Estinien steps back, his movements to undo his trousers slow at first, then increasingly quick and eager as he sneaks glimpses to find Aymeric disrobing as well.

When he stretches out on the bed, one broad hand presses down lightly against one of his hip bones, careful to be angled away from any of the healing burns, but firm enough to give the feel of being pinioned in place as Aymeric's gaze sweeps over him slowly, head to toe, not even trying to hide the lingering moment when they arrive at the dragoon's lance. Even if for some irrational reason he wanted to hide his arousal, there would be no way to do so; he is inarguably achingly hard, prick reddened and arched up towards his belly. When a soft twitch makes the flesh shudder at the regard, the lord smiles a slow, pleased smile, and reaches to reward it with a curl of his free hand around pleading flesh, drawing slowly from root to tip, curled tight and warm. "As beautiful as the rest of you…"

The concept seems surreal to Estinien's mind, especially when he can now easily see the matching response in his bonded; thick with lust, more than generous in size, and oh, Halone's weeping _womb_ , he is probably in for more than he bargained, and he can't even mind. Coherent thinking takes a hiatus as Aymeric's hand draws along the length of him again, then settles in to a slower, leisurely examination, the other still splayed on his hip, holding him flat and still as the vampire's fingertips trace slow patterns, exploring every angle, vein, ridge and dip, as if he is making his own personal map for future use. When the dragoon can manage to focus, he can see the sheer _intensity_ alight in ice, impossible to escape. 

It should be easier when that hand slips away, should lessen his desperate clutch at the bedsheets, but when it leaves, it is only so Aymeric can drag nails down over the hard muscles of his thighs, clearly admiring. Perhaps that shouldn't be as distracting, but it becomes a great deal so when the dark-haired man shifts his weight to wedge one knee between his, leaning down now to claim another lingering kiss. Touch gentle but firm, sword-callused fingers guide thighs to part further, still teasing with nails and dragging touches even as lips match the same slow, teasing pace. Slowly daring higher, nails find the seam where thighs meld to hips, dragging along the sensitive skin slowly, and Estinien _writhes_ , the sensation subtly ticklish but at this point largely serving only to make his cock throb eagerly. Growling, he shifts the angle of the kiss, biting down on Aymeric's lower lip again, tugging and sucking, until it darkens as well.

With a low growl, that hand returns to where he craves it most, curling over him, feeling the weight of his arousal cradled in Aymeric's palm. His hips do their best to flex in time with the slow drag of fingers, unable to do much with the weight of the other hand holding him down. After a moment, pulling back to watch him, Aymeric parts his lips, tongue washing over them before he murmurs, "As much as I long to see your face, for the sake of the state of your back…" He shifts his hand from pressing to gripping, encouraging the dragoon to roll over, tucking his knees up under his torso.

Pillowing arms under his head, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum, Estinien tries not to shiver as Aymeric leans over him, lips dragging up the hilled line of his spine, before finally settling at the nape of his neck as hands brush his hair forward and away. The words whispered against his skin are soft, but enough to be heard easily. "Forgive me for asking again, but I… must be sure. This is truly what you want? I will stop, no hard feelings, if not." 

The concept of _stopping_ seems as strange and impossible as taking away the sky. Estinien arches his spine up, seeking more contact with his partner despite the sting as healing wounds press into the slight sheen of sweat on Aymeric's chest, to say nothing of the dizzying thrill that runs through him when his hips lift enough that he can feel the intense heat of the other man's shaft trapped between their bodies. Words are a challenge, always, but for this, he does his best to manage them, to give assurance, "Truly." He swallows, pushes himself hard, drawing out the honesty in rough, unpolished words like yanking a splinter free. "If I didn’t, I could still be skulking in my room, not breathless waiting for you to finally give in and _fuck me_."

Aymeric sputters in laughter for a moment against his neck, but it is clearly _with_ , not _at_ , as the vampire kisses his skin again in a soft rain. "I assure you; I fully intend to do so." Fingers drag over his ribs, down to hips, gripping for a moment. "But not without preparation. _Do_ stay as you are, please." The bed creaks as Aymeric slides off of it, retrieving something from the depths of one of his dresser drawers. 

The mattress sinks again as the knight settles back into place, resting behind the dragoon's curled form. One hand settles at his hip again, a possessive press of fingers as the lord leans forward, enough that the dark edge of his forelock touches Estinien's lower back a moment before lips do, pressing soft kisses to old scars and avoiding new ones. There's a faint, liquid sound, then slick fingers drag down from the base of his spine, dipping between the curve of buttocks, seeking til they find the spot to rest and linger, tracing slow, steady circles. He tries not to tense, letting out his breath in a rush, letting his mind empty of anything but the feel of lips and fingers, the warmth of _Aymeric_ pressed against him, over him.

A slow easing inwards is accompanied by another gentle kiss to his spine, followed up by the very faintest scrape of fangs. It's not much, but it's enough that there's a wave of lassitude, a settling of warmth and relaxation into his bones that helps with the adjustment. The reminder of how much power over him Aymeric holds and restrains himself from using is a strange thrill, making his cock pulse needily between his bent legs, his opening tightening for a moment around the exploring finger. There's a low, soothing sound from the other man's lips, imprinted against his skin, and Estinien becomes aware that he's panting and moaning softly as a second finger presses inward, curling to rock against a spot that sends _sparks_ flying through him.

The concept of time is an invention anyway, so it doesn't really matter that he loses all sense of it as Aymeric continues to work him open, continuing his insistent ministrations and adding more oil as needed until he can easily take three of the knight's broad fingers. When they draw out fully, the dragoon makes a soft protesting sound of loss before he's aware he's done so, suddenly very grateful that their current position hides just how much he's blushing over the clear sign of _need_.

Or he thought it did, until Aymeric leans up and forward, just barely grazing against his back, lips and teeth finding his ear and nipping delicately at the tip. "You're blushing here too, you know. It's alright… you can be eager for me, Estinien." He knows the sound he makes in return is incoherent, as much animal as anything, but the pleading is clear enough. What does it matter, at this point? Slick sounds drift through his awareness, proof that if he can just be _patient_ that Aymeric is preparing himself. (Over preparing, perhaps, as the dragoon feels oil drip between the knight's fingers, spattering in thick droplets over his skin.)

Then, finally, thankfully, intense heat and soft pressure against where he's been left empty, growing in potency til with a rush of strain and ache, emptiness becomes _fullness_ , just enough, and Aymeric stills as they both take a few ragged, gulping breaths, adjusting to the transition. Lips press behind his ear, making a low sound both soothing and pleased, then slowly and patiently, a steady sinking and filling, until at last, hips bump against him and the world swims, impossibly intense and full. A hand drifts to find his where it's clutched at the sheets, fingers lacing down and between his, holding on gently as Aymeric starts to _move_.

Estinien tightens down the grip of his fingers on those own holding him, using it to anchor him as the world fades back to warmth and sweat and pleasure, the cacophony of paired moans and soft gasps, kisses brushed over the back of his ear, at the nape of his neck, the most delicate, tender precaution of chest pressed to his back, the exquisite ache and _stretch_ as the press of Aymeric within him becomes deeper, quicker. The way his vision dissolves to darkness and stars when hips re-angle, driving against the spot fingers had found earlier and drawing a desperate _keen_ of need from his throat.

His lord's other hand drags over his hip, down and in, finds the incandescent heat and iron of his arousal, calloused fingers wrapping and dragging in time with the staccato pace that pulses through him. Lips move to his ear again, teeth nipping at the lobe, and it takes a moment for the demanding whisper to align in his mind, for enough to come together to make sense of the words. "Tell me you're mine, love, fucking _hells_ , let me know you know…"

It's enough to make him tremble, a whole body spasm as pleasured as those from the merely physical, the strange alchemy of being _desired_ , of being _loved_ , for all he normally won't dare dream the word, and most of all, of being _claimed_ , that strange, warm glow of deep satisfaction as he gasps, words feeling like he's trying to hammer together a shelter with no nails, hard to come by, but shoved into place all the same. "Yours, Aymeric, always…" He has to pause, bite back a curse as that spot is hit again, harder, and gasping becomes even more important than answering, "Always yours, belong to…" It's too much, too dear, and he shudders violently again when a thumb circles the crown of his shaft, further smearing pre, coaxing him closer to the edge, everything tight and tense and _yearning_.

"Good boy." The words should be embarrassing, demeaning, but oh, they feel as much a benediction as Halone's kiss would be, especially when Aymeric's mouth drags down to his neck and he finally, properly, _bites_. Fangs slip into his skin even as his lord presses deep within, hips circling to grind against the most sensitive parts of him, and everything is a flood of too much, the additional pleasure and the overwhelming rush of feeling the vampire in _every_ sense, physical and aethereal, pushing away anything but that moment, the pleasure, the _belonging_ , and oh, it's so much, it's too damn much, and he almost _sobs_ with relief when his peak tears his consciousness to shreds as seed pulses over Aymeric's hand in sticky trails, his body clenching in a series of waves that leave him breathless and weak.

A low groan, pleased and desperate all at once, is muffled by the press of teeth into his shoulder and there's a quick series of pumps before he feels his lord's cock bury as deep in as possible when he climaxes as well, the hand atop his quivering gently with the force of orgasm. The world stays at bay for a little time, his head hanging, fuzzed and full of static and sentiment, and they slowly sink down against the mattress.

All too soon, Aymeric remembers his wounds and is quick to pull back his weight, and if it had stung against the healing cuts and burns, well, the sting was worth it for the warmth and sheer presence of him. Dazedly, the dragoon makes a little sound of loss, drawing a breathless laugh from his partner and another gentle squeeze of clasped hands. "Shhh. Let me take care of you." When the knight pulls out and rolls away, Estinien can't help from shivering, feeling incredibly _exposed_ and _raw_ in the aftermath. 

His gratitude is sincere when Aymeric's hands gently pull him to the edge and off the bed, coaxing him into the bathing chambers. A wetted cloth wipes him clean, first of the aftereffects of their releases, then simply blotting sweat and small spots of blood from his skin, all interspersed with a soft rain of stolen kisses and soothing words. As the tub starts to fill, the vampire finds a glass and fills it with cool water, pressing it into his hands, and Estinien sips at the liquid, the pieces of his world gradually slotting back into place, even if the edges feel strangely new, as if they've been somehow permanently reshaped.

The water is deep and steaming invitingly when Aymeric steps in and holds out hands in offering, and it is an invitation he could never have refused, even before this. Following, they settle into soaking, head heavy with water-wicking silver strands falling to rest on a broad shoulder, a scarred arm wrapped around his waist, rough fingertips stroking an adoring pattern over the curve of a hip bone. It's a while before the vampire tries to speak, his voice soft. "Are you…" He seems to be unsure what to ask or how to phrase it, and Estinien has recovered enough of himself to snort out a rough laugh.

"Well sated, aching, and yes, happy. Don't become insufferable about it, alright?"

The answering chuckle is much gentler and smoother than his own, but that's always been true. Aymeric turns to press a kiss to the top of his head, letting lips linger there. The world is strange and dark, and if danger still circles, for a short while, they can pretend it doesn't, here and later returned to a bed of necessity stripped of soiled linens and remade, where they curl together to rest, and where he can savor the warm glow of contentment for just a little longer, the feeling of Aymeric molded against his spine as he drifts into sleep, of a hand finding his again, clasping him near as if he were somehow, impossibly, unquestionably _precious_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill: My inspiration and adoration is all for [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) and I continue to shamelessly encourage all FFXIV fic writers and readers to join us. <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics and possibilities, potentials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more chill tonight, amidst politics, possibilities, and potential enemies.

When Estinien awakes as the light fades from between the cracks in the wood over the window, he is sore and warm, the sting of sweat in healing wounds a sharp contrast to the soothing pressure of a body pressed firm against his back. Whether consciously aware of it or not, some part of Aymeric clearly agrees that he's healed  _ enough _ , since there is an arm latched tight in possession over his waist once again, the clinging vine dreamer rerooted and settled. Patiently, he pries that grip free and wiggles for the edge of the mattress with as little disturbance as possible. 

Luck grants that he's able to do so without waking his companion and, unwatched and unnoticed, he can indulge briefly in his own soft sentimentality, pulling covers back up to tuck around the dozing form of his bonded, reach a hand to tenderly soothe down the sleep-mussed tangles of Aymeric's hair before he slips out of the room entirely to seek something for his own breakfast. Well used to his habits by now, the kitchen has a tray ready once he's changed -- and Halone's mercy help him, he changes into one of the damnably  _ excessive _ nobleman's shirts that they insist on stocking his wardrobe with this time, to better make his point. As if anyone needs to have  _ embroidery _ without a damn good reason. When he brings his meal back to the bedchamber, Aymeric has burrowed further down into the covers, basically disappearing beneath them.

Frowning a little as he pours out tea and settles to watch, it occurs to the dragoon that this may be a side effect of the man's… condition, so to speak. He is often colder to the touch before feeding and perhaps that is also behind some of his particularly intense tendency to seek out touch and nearness when sleeping. Then again, that  _ could _ also just be the vampire's innately over-emotional nature, even before he lost some of the restraints that had guided him. Mildly irritable at the questions and lack of knowledge, Estinien stabs his fork into a sausage, chewing meditatively as he watches the bed.

As he expected, it takes ten or so minutes, but the smell of tea is lure enough to wake the manor's lord. Even if he drinks a great deal  _ less _ of it now, he's found that the routine of tea and at least being company during meals seem to still be touchpoints that de Borel appreciates. At the sleepy blink he gets once Aymeric is propped up on one elbow, he pours the second cup, unable to suppress the flash of a wolfish grin. "You really are rather lie-a-bed these days. Get yourself up, there's tea and food, if you want it, or if you don't…" It takes a small self-shove of daring, but far less so now, to brush his hair back behind his shoulders, allow it to stand for an implicit offer at the gesture highlighting his neck as he eyes his rapidly-awaking companion.

"Tea first." Is Aymeric's bleary agreement, pausing long enough to only pull on smallclothes and a pair of trousers before he claims the other half of the couch and his cup. A few more minutes and small sips and he finds his face again, settling into calm control as his gaze comes to rest on the dragon-blooded again, flickering from eyes to neck and back again. "You're trying terribly hard to convince me you're well enough to accompany me out, aren't you?"

Not surprised at being caught out with his fairly transparent motives, Estinien shrugs and kicks his feet up onto the table, balancing his plate in his lap. Aymeric winces, just a little, but manages to not say anything, probably because there's only so much a socked foot can do to sturdy wood. "Seemed to think I was healthy enough last night, didn't you?" His toothed smile is almost feline in return, a gleam in dark eyes. "I'm healing well. If you don't believe me, you can take a taste before we go out, since you prefer to proceed to the chapel already mostly fed if you can anyway, and if I handle it, why shouldn't I be able to go with and watch your back?"

Indecision makes the pale blue of Aymeric's gaze waver and he reaches to stroke fingertips along an upper arm, unerringly seeking out the spot where he had to stitch shut the wound left by Charibert's blade, no matter that the bandage should be well hidden under Estinien's shirt. He observes the slight tense of pained muscles, the stubborn clench of a jaw, frown deepening. "If you seem well after, you may come with. However, if wearing your armor over the injuries today makes your wounds worse, we may have to discuss alternatives after that."

It's not quite the perfect answer that Estinien had been hoping for, but it's a lot better than several other possible results. After he finishes eating and sets the plate aside - having to take his feet off the table to do so, no doubt to Aymeric's relief - he turns back to find the vampire watching him with a level of appreciative intensity which is damnably near enough to make him shiver. Licking his lips minutely as he resettles, returning that gaze, he reaches a hand out to his bonded, warmed by the way the dark haired man smiles as he pulls him closer. Aymeric's lips press at the hinge of his jaw, soft and fond, then slip lower even as wide fingers draw his hair back and away, gripping it gently to still him as teeth find his pulse and the warmth and pleasure sweep through him. For the sake of his hope of being able to act as a guard tonight, the sensation is at least somewhat restrained this time, even if it's enough to make him shiver and stroke absentminded fingertips over the vampire's thighs and sides as he drinks. The temptation to ask to be able to stay there certainly isn't  _ non-existent _ , but it's enough he can lie to himself that he cares more about proving that he's recovered and strong again, pushing it away. 

(-----)

He also is probably lying to himself a fair bit about the comfort level he has in wearing his armor after being released to return to his room and change. Digging through his provided clothing finally turns up a lightweight padded shirt that while it will likely make his mail a bit tight, should serve to better protect his still healing skin. Before he puts on his gauntlets, he settles for quickly tugging his hair back into a low tail with a bit of ribbon;  _ not _ his first choice, but the only thing he can find, and at least he can just knot it. Once fully clad (other than the  _ still _ missing helm, wherever in the hells Aymeric hid it!) he retrieves his lance and goes to find his companion.

He tries very hard not to think of words like  _ resplendent _ at the appearance of the nobleman in his own armor and simply gives him a calm nod to show he's ready to depart. Thankfully, the walk this night is quiet and calm, possibly due to a particularly biting edge to the air as the wind carries a fierce promise of forthcoming ice and snow. What people they see are hurrying to their destinations, as much as is possible on still slippery cobblestones from an earlier dusting.

The cathedral itself, however, is rather more packed; it's possible it's some sort of holy day or feast. If he were forced to it, Estinien would have to confess that he never paid terribly much attention to the details and dates like that; his concern with the church was always only ever for Halone's blessing of fury and their inherent support in fighting against the dragons that have ever tormented Coerthas. Beyond that, he was as well off leaving them to rot with the noble houses. Well. He had been. His stance might be changing of necessity.

Aymeric is also far from the only one of his kind there today; his initial sweeping gaze picks Zephirin's slight height and blonde hair out of the crowd easily, as swarmed with the devout as Aymeric often is, if not more so. Heustienne is with him, no doubt in the same role he serves, leaning against the wall in the back and watching the crowd with narrowed eyes. Ser Hermenost -- who at least used to be one of the more bearable fellows in the Ward, although he does not know if that still holds true -- speaks with another group, seemingly mostly older or less keen to fight for power. A final flick to the far side and tension briefly surges through him like an electric shock; the final Ward member attending to the congregation tonight is their far too recent visitor.

Charibert lacks as much company, save for those willing to risk more severe discomfort for social standing, and a chill lifts the hair on his arm when the man's colorless eyes rest on him and Aymeric before he pulls a young noblewoman from the group around him, speaking to her in a low voice. When she follows him towards one of the more shrouded pews for 'communion', Estinien resolutely turns his gaze away. He can not afford to let any discomfort show and well he knows it; their only hope to stretch out the time they have to prepare before leaving or fighting is to seem to have at least mostly accepted the things demanded of them.

Which means he spends a very uncomfortable bell leaning against the chapel wall and glaring daggers at anyone who looks at him too long. Probably every person who Aymeric steps aside with as well, as much as he knows it is necessary, the process of  _ watching _ when he feeds from someone else, however briefly and sedately, is more than he can easily bear. So he keeps his attention instead on those waiting and trusts to the bond to let him know if there's cause to return his gaze to his knight instead.

He's not sure how much time has passed, exactly, when a figure in drachen mail approaches slowly and settles to lean a few feet away, but there's no misidentifying the fall of dark blonde hair or the unique hue of her drachen mail. When Heustienne speaks, he's startled at the familiar calm steel in her voice, given how distanced from her normal self she's been every other time he's been near her since the new world was unveiled. "You must have healed quickly. Some of those Charibert visits have needed far more time to return to their duties. Or is that merely the same single-minded stubbornness that served you overly well in training?"

Unable to resist curiosity, Estinien's gaze turns to the side, observing his fellow former dragoon and powerful dragon-blooded. She looks to him only rarely and he thinks her hair has grown out since they fought together; nearly to her waist now, and threaded with strands of dragon-claws, strangely barbaric and beautiful. Either Zephirin still grants her leave to hunt dragons, or Heustienne is very spoiled in her gifted relics. Shifting his own weight slightly, he grunts in vague acknowledgement. "Is there a reason that both are not possible? You seem very alert today, compared to our last encounter."

When she laughs, it's with a small trace of bitterness that stings. "Yes, well, today I am not recovering from helping my Blessed companion heal from his own wounds and beyond that, while in court, every eye is on everyone. Not here, though." Lifting her chin in a slight gesture, Heustienne's gaze sweeps over the congregation, lingering on each of the vampiric figures. "They're only here for the Blessed -- and your own Master -- and the vampires only watch one another, not us." 

Studying her more closely, a dark red scar on her belly is revealed, bared by the irrational design of the female variant of the drachen mail, a little more than a ilm long. Drawing teeth over his lower lip for a brief moment, Estinien mentally compares the coloration to the still forming scar on his back he's glimpsed in the mirror and decides that this must be her bonding mark. As implied by his and Aymeric's discussion on the matter, it's definitely smaller than his own. He's still not sure how far he trusts her, however, so he answers the comment with no more than a quiet grunt of acknowledgement. Without any certainty, he'd rather turn his eyes back to Aymeric, and the hope that his gaze is read as purely watchful and alert.

"He's here for you, isn't he? Not because he's accepted Thordan's way of doing things." Heustienne's words are casual, almost offhand, but Estinien swears he catches the hints of a sharp-edged gleam in her eyes and he knows better than to underestimate the woman who came closest to matching him in training.

"I believe he would tell you he's here because it's where he was ordered to be. Isn't that enough?" The nice thing about always sounding growly and irritable is that it's easy to pull that mood back into his voice when he's already annoyed. Estinien struggles to keep his eyes sweeping the chapel, not look at his companion to read her expression and let it become obvious that her response is worth recording. 

Heustienne lets out a thoughtful, small noise, and straightens up. "Interesting. Do excuse me, Estinien, I believe that services are concluding for the evening." He watches as she walks away, not once looking back towards him or towards Aymeric, her eyes seemingly only for Zephirin. It's concerning and he makes the unhappy conclusion it's another thing to bring up with Aymeric. 

(-----)

As best he can, Estinien explains the conversation in short snatches to Aymeric on the walk home, although speaking is difficult with the earlier promised blizzard having begun, the winds loud enough to cut off the ability to hear in several places. Once they reach the manor and can get inside, the dragoon curses and brushes as much snow as he can off of himself, scattering it on the floor. For once, Aymeric doesn't chastise him, hurrying instead of to remove his snow-soaked boots and leave them to dry. "We should both change into something warm and dry." 

The dragoon nods agreement, pausing in his own trek to change so he can have the kitchen send up tea and something hot for his own stomach. That arranged, he returns to his room -- the back of his mind may quip at him that it's really a  _ glorified closet _ now but that doesn't mean he has to listen -- and drops his armor on the rack and moves it closer to the fire to dry, draping his clothes over the stool before he pulls on a pair of trousers and, with a small sigh, the same shirt from earlier in the evening, snowflake embroidered cuffs or not. 

That attended to, he relocates himself to Aymeric's room, finding that the fireplace has been stoked into a roaring blaze, enough that the air is a little stifling. There's the scent of incense in the air, which while he's caught lingering in the room before, he hasn't smelled so heavily in a long time. The combination reminds him of his first night after his… his… For a long moment, the dragoon's mind stutters over what to call the night Aymeric came for him. Finally, frustratingly, he tells himself it was just his return to Ishgard and to shut up with thinking about it, you've wasted several perfectly good seconds. Either way, it doesn't help with his comfort level.

He finds Aymeric near the fire, changed into heavier, warmer clothing, the tray he requested before coming upstairs already on the table. For a moment, he searches the other man's expression, pausing to briefly press their foreheads together before he grabs a chunk of bread and cheese off of the plate and sit down. "I'm guessing you've been thinking everything through to excess. How paranoid do I need to be the next few days?"

"I think not very, in the end. Zephirin was never zealous in Charibert's manner, but he has always been very dedicated to the church. I would imagine that, in the end, any answer you gave that wasn't open defiance is enough for him to feel that he is just as well off waiting to see what I do." Aymeric grimaces faintly as he moves to settle at Estinien's side, slumping down just a little so he can rest his head on the other man's shoulder.

"I just said you were doing what you were told, more or less. I wasn't going to pick a fight with Heustienne when I'm injured, I recall that quite well from my time with the dragoons." For just a second, Estinien lets himself rest his cheek against the top of Aymeric's scalp, breathing in the soft scent of him before he turns back to finishing his meal. "Storm was looking pretty bad when we were coming home. Had the astrologians predicted anything?"

"That the weather will shut down everything tomorrow night, and maybe further out, according to Zephirin and all the gossip I heard." Aymeric murmurs quietly, nestling himself in just a little nearer, one arm working between the couch back and Estinien's to curl around. "Enough to make me glad that I've taken care not to miss days, since if I do now, it should be allowed.." He pauses, sighs wearily. "Unless my sire changes his standards again, at least, but since I have not seen him, for now…"

"You can justifiably claim ignorance if it has and we both know that in Ishgard, being able to convincingly excuse something is often all you need." Estinien says with a slight trace of bitterness in his voice. He rubs at one of the healing burns on his arm for a moment, the new skin still itchy and tight. "A day or two or peace is promising, though. It'll give us time to…" He hesitates, still rubbing at his arm until Aymeric reaches to pull his hand away. "I'd feel better if we had bags packed and ready to go, just in case."

Fingers intertwining with his, Aymeric stays quiet just a few beats too long before he reluctantly makes a quiet sound of agreement. "I hate the idea of leaving Ishgard or my home. But I concede that if it comes down to that being the best way to keep you safe, it is preferable to the alternative." Slowly, his thumb traces an absent path across the back of Estinien's hand, eyes on that subtle movement. "I have little doubt in my mind that Charibert's increased presence has been intended as a reminder to me, although if that was his own sadism or a request from higher up, I do not know. At least he has done little but  _ watch _ ." He turns his pale ice gaze to study the dragoon momentarily. "Don't think I didn't notice the handful of winces and occasional stiffness when you moved in your armor. Still, you handled everything well enough, I concede."

Grunting softly, Estinien has his own doubts about how long the situation will stay calm. He's rather sure Aymeric does too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill: My inspiration and adoration is all for [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) and I continue to shamelessly encourage all FFXIV fic writers and readers to join us. <3
> 
> Please feel free to feed your writer with comments. ;) I know, this was a relatively calm one, but I have to be nice once in awhile.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so sometimes, I deal with stress by writing smut. SO. HAPPY FERAL FRIDAY? Yeah.

The howling winds continue through the day, no doubt depositing a generous swathe of snow and ice, and Estinien sleeps poorly because of it. He wakes early too, a chill in the air despite Aymeric curled to his back. As is becoming a habit, careful self-extrication allows him to tuck the vampire back under the covers, still clinging to the heat of his own body, and to go to build the fireplace up to a proper roar. He intends to slip out to bathe and change, but when he straightens and nears the door, he hears a sleepy whisper asking him to wait. Eyes like a lightning strike blink at him tiredly across the room, before Aymeric manages to pull himself into a seated posture, mounding the covers about himself as he does so. "I slept poorly as well. Would you object to my company?"

Voice gruff, roughened further by the remnants of sleep, Estinien shifts to lean against the wall by the door. "Very rarely, as I thought you might know. I suppose if you're quick enough, I can wait." A lie; he would wait quite long enough if he had to, but there's no need to go _admitting openly_ to that sort of thing. Aymeric probably knows anyway, given the soft smile the lord favors him with before he starts to collect a change of clothes. Straightening as the other man gets closer, he does his best to be stoic at the soft kiss brushed over his cheek, although it's possible a _small_ smile peeks through.

Retrieving a change for himself takes little time and he's appreciative that the servants now know to leave off and not try and set up the tub when he's involved. Aymeric draws the water so hot that they must sink down in stages, adapting to the sudden change in temperature. Still, it is not at all unpleasant once he's used to it, and the intense heat draws tension out of his muscles, giving him enough of an excuse to pretend he's justified in curling to his bondmate's side. On the other hand, given that the heat already makes for a certain subtle light-headedness, when Aymeric has relaxed and turns his head, allowing lips to find the edge of an ear, then nipping gently, he sways in place, groaning softly. "You are terribly unfair."

"And how am I unfair, my dear?" Aymeric's voice is rich with amusement, his lips gliding down lower, ghosting over wet silver strands and then over the line of jaw. A more coherent answer is probably called for, but it is still damnably _early_ and Estinien doesn't want to think or banter. With a rumbled gasp, he twists, turning around to shove his lips eagerly against the softer pair trying to make him talk, kissing with dizzy enthusiasm and animal hunger. He can feel his body, already stirring to response, and just kisses Aymeric harder, daring to rest fingertips on broad shoulders, tracing the shape of them, then lower, flicking over nipples dampened by exposure to cooler air as a back arches.

When he breaks the kiss, panting softly, he meets those pale, piercing eyes with his own darkness, face flushed but voice certain. "Let me touch you." There is a slight hiss from an indrawn breath, but Aymeric nods his agreement. He has to swallow back a slight nervousness, but he continues, "Sit on the edge?" Expression full of a quiet intrigue, the vampire pulls himself up, balanced on the broad edge of the tub, legs still resting in the steaming water.

Stretching up, Estinien kisses Aymeric again -- and oh, what a strange world he's in, that it's become _again_ , that it's become so natural and sweet and _comfortable_ to do so. He lingers there, softer and slower this time, the indulgence of quiet drags of lips on lips, the delicate pressure of hard teeth on giving flesh, given or taken, the feeling of fingers combing through his damp hair, spreading it across his shoulders like a cloak. As he kisses, the dragoon lets his fingertips wander, focus more this time on broad shapes; the narrowing line of a waist, the hard curve of a bicep, the delicate inward dip of the belly button. From there, it's a small journey to teasing over the trail of delicate curls leading downwards, beads of water gathering around his fingers and rolling lower.

Pulling back from the kiss, he catches the movement from the edge of his vision and gives in to impulse, leaning down now, the flick of a tongue catching a droplet in its slow journey lower. Aymeric gasps sharply, reaching to work fingers down into his hair, stroking a firm pattern over his scalp as he finds and kisses away further beads of water even as his hand dips fully into the thatch of dark curls, twining them and tugging gently for a second. That rewards him with another encouraging sound, and Estinien turns his head slightly to watch as his fingers curl around the base of the vampire's shaft, comparing the thick width to his grip and enjoying the visual contrast of tanned fingers against reddened and stiff flesh, hardness encased in divine softness. He indulges in a slow drag of his hand up that proud length, pleased at the way the movement makes the muscles in Aymeric's hips and bottom tense, trying not to press up into the touch too much.

Shifting, the hot water swirling around him in dizzying eddies, Estinien settles kneeling between the other man's thighs, sneaking a glance upward through lashes and wet tangles of argent, catching the look of devout adoration and possessiveness, all laced through with vulnerability as his thumb traces the line of a flaring ridge, drawing forth more quiet gasps. Pleased at the effect he has, he leans in, replacing thumb with tongue, tracing a slow circle, the faintest lingering traces of sweat and skin under the water. It is with a definite mix of shock and self-consciousness that he realizes he's _resentful_ of that, wants more of the true taste of his lover. Giving in to instinct, trusting on his favorite old guide in uncertainty, he flicks over the very tip, finding the first small traces of arousal, a taste like nothing else. Most importantly, a taste that's very much _Aymeric_ , more than enough to encourage him to close lips over the source, exploring with mouth and tongue, taking his time in learning the shape of his lord in his mouth. He finds that dragging along the ridge leads to tightening hands in his hair and rocking hips, that a tongue pressed firmly to the small notch where the crown meets on the underside draws eager panting and an increased swell of salt and slick. 

Gradually, he explores further, swallowing deeper, eager and desiring to please, still glancing up when he can. It's hard to split his attention for too long, but oh so worth it when he can meet those pale eyes, alight with pleasure and need. As he sucks, hollowing his cheeks, he starts to stroke with the hand still wrapped around that eager cock, mindful of the increased friction from the water, curling his free hand around to the small of Aymeric's back to help steady himself. And, perhaps, for the simple enjoyment of feeling his muscles flex and move against his hand as his lord is unable to keep from bucking up towards his mouth, pressing deeper with demand.

"Ah, love, do you know how much I've dreamed of your mouth on me?" Estinien cannot stop the tremor that racks him at those words, at that voice that has always drawn him on many levels, low and rich so it seems like it curls down into the very base of his spine and draws fingers over his very self. If his mouth wasn't occupied, he admits he'd probably be making a rather loud scoffing sound. As it is, apparently enough of it escapes that Aymeric's fingers tighten in his hair, stilling his motion for a moment, and he looks up fully, mouth still stretched wide around the fat width of the other man's prick. "Truly, Estinien." One hand slips free of the tangled grip on wet strands, stroking along his cheek, then over the line where his mouth meets Aymeric's flesh. "Shall I tell you how utterly lovely you are like that, dazed and dark-eyed with lust, mouth and throat worshipping cock like you were made for it?"

He shouldn't blush. He's not blushing. He's… Of by all the _fucking Hells and Halone's heart_ why did the damnable man have to turn out to have _that voice_ and a _filthy mouth_? It shouldn't be allowed. He growls, low and grumpy, feeling the sound vibrate in his chest and no doubt elsewhere. The dragoon can hear his lord's soft, fond laughter, finger still tracing over his lips. "All the more attractive to see you actually disarmed over it. Now…" This time, when hips press up and deeper into his mouth, it is with Aymeric's hand controlling the angle he holds his head at. Those fingers wander, petting almost idly along the stretched line of his neck and throat as the vampire starts to fuck his face.

It takes a few moments to adapt, to figure out how to best draw in air between thrusts, to work his tongue and hand to compliment the spearing into the wet heat of his mouth, digging the nails of his other hand harder into flexing back muscles to egg on further strength and demand. The water has cooled a bit, but is still pleasantly warm, the sounds of it lapping against the sides of the tub as they move with the drive of hips and the sway of his own torso. Above him, that intoxicating voice continues to murmur both sweet praise and adoring descriptions of his depravity. The feel of that body drawing tenser against him, the hard length twitching and jumping against his lips, is warning enough even before Aymeric gasps, panting out a warning question, "Do you want me to fill your mouth?" Unable to respond more properly, Estinien settles for a firm, inviting press of his hand against the lower back, dragging Aymeric the tiniest amount closer and trusting to it to make his wishes clear.

"That's my good boy." The softly gasped words are full of affection even as the hand twisted through his hair squeezes tight, holding Estinien firmly in place, the other hand gently stroking along his throat through the quick jerk of hips that precedes the surge of liquid heat, filling his mouth near to overflow as he swallows greedily. Following the gradual relaxation of Aymeric's hips as he starts to slip back down from his peak, the dragoon finds that he is quite content to linger, soft swipes of his tongue chasing down any lingering remnants until the hand fisted in his hair pulls him back, a little roughly, as if the ongoing stimulation had become too much.

Mouth hanging open slightly as he pants to regain full breath, Estinien whimpers faintly -- he tells himself it's _not a whimper_ , even if it is -- when Aymeric's thumb traces over his lips again, feeling their lightly swollen state and wiping them dry. His own arousal has faded into the background, at least a little, when his attention had focused fully on his self-appointed task, and with Aymeric pleased, it's starting to nudge at him again, the longing ache heavy and all too aware of the lingering heat of water. A slight shift of his weight is all it takes to catch the lord's attention, and Aymeric slips to stand in the tub, pulling him up to his feet as well.

Being drawn into a slightly breathless, intense kiss is enough to make him sway forward minutely, a small groan escaping as the motion presses the stiff heat of him into the hollow of Aymeric's hip, the vampire's tongue plunging into his mouth to chase after the taste of his own pleasure. Hands settle on his hips, guiding into a slow rock that only emphasizes the gentle friction of flesh dragging on flesh, his own finding purchase lifting high to wrap around broad shoulders. Lips pull back to speak, with touches as light as spiraling snowflakes between the words. "I want to taste your blood in my mouth as you cry for me again. Touch yourself, move against me, whatever you need; show me how much you want it too."

Estinien manages a slightly ragged-edged nod, fingers tracing the flex of shoulder muscles. "Right." It seems like it should be an inadequate answer, but it's enough to earn him one of those indulgent, adoring smiles that makes him grateful for the hands on his hip helping hold him upright and in place. And further grateful for them when Aymeric's mouth works its way lower, feathering kisses along jaw and throat, until he finally stills with them pressed where they can both feel his pulse thundering rapidly against the imprint of them into his skin. For a second or two, the anticipation is savored, drawn out, then lips part and with a doubled needle's prick of pain and heated pleasure, the vampire's bite opens his vein. 

He's not expecting there to be any holding back this time which proves to be quite accurate; as the mind-muddling heat and sensation of melded energies flows through him, it's as powerful as it ever has been. The pleasure beats in time with his pulse, with the slow draw of lips and teeth at his neck, at the pace of hands flexing on his hips, guiding him to grind shamelessly against Aymeric's skin, sending sharp spikes of overwhelming pleasure through him. Groaning shakily, Estinien presses his cheek down into Aymeric's hair, letting his panting breaths draw in the scent of him as he thrusts like a wild thing in rut.

Even if there are no words to guide him with the vampire feeding, the certainty is there, as well as the encouragement in tightly grasping hands, in the soft sounds of pleasure drifting up to his ears, in the gentle flex of muscles where the painfully hard length of him drags against soft, scarred skin. It takes so very little time, when he was already needy, with the waves of pleasure and the overwhelming, all-encompassing sense of Aymeric's energy lapping against his skin from every direction, and quicker than he expects to, he's gasping sharp and long and keening, all but melded against the other man as he peaks, a wash of sticky heat dripping between them and marking two bellies. 

Characteristically gentle, the bite is broken only after he is finished and trying to reclaim his mind, teeth slipping free and lips and tongue washed soothingly over the small, lingering marks of it. After that, Aymeric's mouth moves to press just before his ear, soft and warm. "Beautiful, love…" When he still has enough sense of himself to make a faintly rude noise at that, the lord laughs and uncoils one arm, snagging the washcloth and starting to wipe both of them down, the water now barely better than lukewarm. "You are. You were beautiful when we were mere striplings in tattered chainmail long ago, when you neither knew nor cared to know of my existence, and you are just as beautiful now. Especially when you're raw and open and undone for me." The words are warm, soft, almost casual in their teasing, but something in the raw, pure honesty of them flays Estinien's heart open, at the reminder of just _how long_ Aymeric has apparently quietly pined.

"It's a good thing you do have me to watch your back, because you're daft and delusional, Borel." The low grumble is without question a cover and divergence from his own feelings, but at least the man has the good grace to allow him his bluster. Stretching one long limb to drag a towel closer, Estinien starts to roughly dry his hair, helping hide his face til he's sure there's no longer any hint of color and his expression is controlled. Once he's sure of that, he moves to drying the rest of himself off, pausing to shove a second towel into Aymeric's hands when he finds the dark-haired man still watching him fondly.

"I imagine it's a good thing to have you at my back for a vast plethora of reasons." He's so disgustingly _positive_ sometimes and Estinien just growls and clambers out the tub to get dressed. Despite his grumpiness, he tolerates Aymeric's insistence on brushing out his hair for him after they are both reclad and heads for breakfast in good spirits.

((------))

The blizzard and lingering chill and thick ice afterwards that prevents easy clearing of the city streets gains them almost two more whole nights with no pressure or stresses, just the quiet of home and the warmth of one another. It is a rare gift, and if they spend it in part preparing packs at Estinien's insistence so that they are prepared for any eventuality, well, that is merely the product of being sensible. If anything, the dragoon has almost genuinely relaxed by the end of it, until a courier who fought their way through the lingering drifts drops off a letter.

A chill grips him the instant Aymeric turns the envelope over and views the seal of purest white on the back. He cannot see the shape in it from where he stands, but he can see the slight trembling in the vampire's fingers, never mind what he feels through the bond. Reaching over, Estinien roughly pulls the letter free, examining the seal - a crown - before he cracks it with his thumbnail. "What does it mean?" The contents seem unremarkable; a call to court in two night's time for any important announcement, but little beyond that. Nothing betrays why it has struck his bondmate with such intense discomfort (maybe even fear, but just as Aymeric would hate to admit to that, he will not do him the disservice of admitting that he knows that's what it is).

"A white seal means they are bringing a new child into the fold. When we go to court," Reaching to take the letter back, Aymeric refolds it with care, his expression once more infinitely wearied and bitter. "They will announce who is the next to gain the _blessing_ of Halone and become a blood drinker. If they have called me there, my sire expects me to have some role in it." He stares at the letter a while longer, the brilliant blue of his eyes gone flat and dull, then tosses it onto the sideboard before stalking away. There is naught to be done but to follow and soothe and pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill: My inspiration and adoration is all for [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) and I continue to shamelessly encourage all FFXIV fic writers and readers to join us. <3
> 
> Please feel free to feed your writer with comments. ;) Please forgive me for stumbling my way through dirty talk, of a sort. XD


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations of the white seal as thorns wrap tight and deadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats* PLEASE DON'T HURT ME FOR THIS ONE.

Whether he attempts with words or body, there is no distracting Aymeric from his inward tension in the intervening night, and Estinien finally throws himself down on the bench in the courtyard, watching the slightly shorter and wider-shouldered form of his bondmate pace, muscles flexing beneath his clothing. "Aymeric, enough. You're only making it worse." There is no response.

A few more quiet calls of the lord's name in the next few minutes have the same response. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, Estinien scoops up a heaping handful of snow, stalks up behind the pacing vampire, pulls the back of his shirt away from his neck, and shoves the pile of icy slush inside.

He has not heard Aymeric scream like that since the last time he did the same thing.

He _also_ fails to predict that his reflexes are no longer so much better than Aymeric's that he can be guaranteed of avoiding the retaliation and thusly, a second later, he finds himself slammed down against the drift-scattered flagstones with a growl, a chilly hand shoving another handful of snow down the front of his own shirt. For the next few minutes, everything is a blur of laughter and bruisingly rough, good-natured roughhousing, until they are both soaked through with snow and red-faced, panting from the chill and the exertion. It’s been many years since they’ve tussled such, but it returns as easily as breathing.

Finally, Aymeric manages to pin both of his hands down and, chilly water dripping down from his forelock, leans in to claim a brief kiss. As he straightens up, he declares, in combative words but a much better natured tone, "You, my dear, are an _ass_. There are better ways to get my attention."

Estinien briefly considers this. "No. You were not listening. As well, I think it did you some good to act like a boy again." He takes the hand offered to him and stands as well, trying to brush some of the snow off of himself, to little avail. "I think, however, that we now both need fresh clothing, so no one ends up with frostbite ere midday." In truth, there's a slight shiver that grips Aymeric for a moment, enough to encourage them to hurry inside — where if they were watching this time, the servants were wise enough to not let on — and upstairs to change. This requires briefly parting company and Estinien allows his mind to brush past the thought that it would be easier if his clothes were kept in the same room before he quickly banishes it again.

When he returns himself to Aymeric's chambers, redressed in warm night — well, no, now it's day, isn't it? — time sleeping clothes, he finds the lord has built the fire up high and changed into much the same. Spotting the comb in the dark-haired man's hand, he sighs and sits on the sofa, remembering _this_ routine from days when they were both just soldiers and friends. "I told you then and I'll tell you again, my hair will dry fine by the fire without you fussing over it, and I bloody well _know_ you know I brush it." 

Aymeric laughs, settling behind his back and starting to work the damp and tangles out of dragoon's hair. "Ah, but now I am able to admit that it was simply an excuse to touch you." Estinien is quick to give the scoff he is expected to give to that and if his cheeks feel ever so slightly warmed, surely it is only that he faces the fire.

It is only after a minute or two in silence that the vampire's voice, much quieter than usual, breaks forth once more. "The last white seal? That was mine. I did not know, aforehand, of course, that I was to be summoned to my own execution. In effect, if not fact." His hand stills, shaking, then resolutely picks up the long, slow drags of the comb. "As soon as the words were proclaimed by Thordan, Guerrique and Grinnaux had my arms. I was mortal. They are blood-drinkers, well fed, with others near at hand to draw on. There was no hope." 

When his hand slows again, Estinien turns to face the knight, taking the comb from him to set aside, weaving his own fingers into Aymeric's as he continues to explain. "I gave you the broad strokes before, blade and blood til the world disappears in a crush of dark and bile. I will not forget, though, which of them came to savor the _preparations_. Guerrique and Grinnaux again. Charibert, of course, for every moment. Paulecrain. Those were the ones who _enjoyed_." Another long pause and he slowly shifts, resting his head against the firm muscles of Estinien's shoulder, his eyes closing. "Forgive me. I merely hope that whoever the summons is for tomorrow night is aware of their fate aforehand, even if it will be difficult to see no matter the specific circumstances." 

Giving a slight squeeze to the hand in his, Estinien asks quietly, "Will you be able to keep yourself in control? If you cannot, we could be in a very dangerous place. This is a battleground, have no question, and if you will fall apart the instant we set foot on it…" He knows it is an unkind question and demand. He also knows it must be asked, even as Aymeric winces.

"Yes, I believe so. I ought to at least appear properly composed which will be enough to get us through the evening." Aymeric sounds calm and confident, but even without the chill sweeping through his scar, Estinien knows him well enough to see the lie in it. If it were an option, he'd do his best to keep the other man well away from the whole situation… but it's not, so he will merely have to be prepared for the worst.

((-----))

Estinien likes it all the less when he learns this is a formal dress affair, by which he means, not a formal _armored_ affair. The older maid lays out clothes for him and returns to braid his hair into the complicated rope once more, which while it may keep it from his eyes, makes him feel disgustingly fussy. He supposes that is Aymeric's doing, though, remembering his commentary on the plait the last time after dinner, not to mention… For a second, his fingertips touch his lips, then the dragoon sighs and settles into fastening and latching the artifact bands into place. At least he'll have this power near at hand; ankles, wrists, neck. The cuff and crystal are still on his ear; he has simply learned to sleep with it in place, having seen the softening to his lord's gaze when he leaves it on.

When he leaves his room, fingers itching for his lance, Aymeric is waiting. He is resplendent in nearly matching finery; black and gold in comparison to Estinien's own black and silver. He cannot help but assume it's deliberate, but if the visual appearance of a united front offers some degree of comfort, he's hardly going to object to that. The brief moment when the dark-haired man runs a fingertip along the braid draped over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with silent appreciation, is still enough to make him feel a temporary flush of heat before they don heavy coverings and head out into the nighttime chill.

The walk is quiet, the still lingering heavy drifts muffling their footfalls and the voices of the few people out and about. Neither of them are overly inclined towards conversation, Estinien by nature and Aymeric due to the nervous tension they both pretend to be unaware of. Once inside the entry halls to the Vault, a bondservant that the dragoon is unfamiliar with takes their cloaks and they are given time to dust off any lingering snow and put themselves in order, before he leads the way deeper into the building. Here, the incense is less stifling than it was at the back rooms of the Cathedral, although that may be merely due to the vaulting ceilings. A long, slow climb up the massive flights of stairs and they are led to a vast circular chamber, already full of bodies.

People, he supposes, more accurately. Even if unarmored, the Ward is helpfully coded in their blue and white, as are most of the members of the upper houses. Studying those, it's not too hard to pick out those who have gained the aura of power that comes with transformation; the Countess de Dzemael, Laniaitte de Haillenarte, and Forlemort de Durendaire, as well as some lessers, both in family prominence and power here. Three of the four high houses. Fortemps is here too, in small part, but their Count bears no signs of having embraced the ways of drinking blood, and the one son still in the city is barely old enough to have been officially recognized as a knight. Trailing in Aymeric's wake, they find a space around the fringes to stand and watch the proceedings.

Estinien is almost _pained_ by how intensely he wants to pace and move as they wait, but he is fairly sure not all of that nervous energy is his own and he keeps a wary eye on his companion. His outward appearance is as serene as ever, even as the crowd shifts and parts as Thordan enters. The Ward all began to move in his direction, lesser stars drawn to the sun, as the Archbishop and vampiric wellspring pounds his staff against the floor, the ringing impacts silencing the crowd. It's less necessary than it once might have been; the old reediness to his voice is long gone now, the vibrancy and power easily a match for that passed on in his bloodline.

"My children, my faithful ones. Long have we labored to bring all the Four Houses of Ishgard into Halone's embrace and the new gifts we are given to show her love for us. Tonight, we are pleased to announce that the newest to be accepted for initiation into our ranks will allow us to achieve this lofty goal. Emmanellain de Fortemps, please step forward." The younger Fortemps boy emerges from the crowd, back straight, head held high, as peacock-splendid as any of them in the red and black hues of his house. For a second, his eyes turn to his father's face, deeper-lined than Estinien remembers, then they dart to the vampiric brilliance of the transmuted Laniaitte Hallenarte and his jaw draws a hair firmer in conviction. Ah. Foolish youth and foolish love. While his own feelings are that this is unfortunate, Aymeric's pull at the bonding scar like an anchor in the ocean, sinking into deep darkness and misery with an all-consuming speed.

As subtly as he can, despite the awkward discomfort making even so small a gesture in such a public situation stirs in him, the dragoon lays fingertips against the small of the vampire's back, ghosting against his spine for a second or two to draw him back and remind him of his presence and of promises. The lord's breath comes out in a rush as his hand drops away and a little of that oppressive weight lifts, even as Thordan steps forward, laying a hand on Emmaellain's forehead in bastardized benediction. "All of you, please, a moment of welcome for this forthcoming child of Halone, then I will speak with those already initiated into her love." Slowly, through shifts and swirls of power, those there come forth, murmur congratulations or welcome, and then depart. Gradually, the room grows thin, although not lesser, the air thick with the power that remains, amidst vampires and those fully bound in blood and magic to their service.

The last to depart is Edmont de Fortemps himself, a few whispered words to his son that leave both of them quietly weeping before the old man's cane echoes on the floor as he leaves, a piteous echo of earlier impacts. A moment's respite, then the Archbishop begins to call names, last among the Laniaitte and Aymeric himself. As those named step forward, a gesture from his bondmate leaves Estinien waiting in place, every ilm of him taut and screaming in tension. He does not know what comes next, but he knows his lord is — he would not speak the word, neither of them would ever speak it thus, not among so many ears, but oh, he _knows_ — terrified beneath his perfect noble facade of calm.

"You are the newest among us, and as such, this duty falls to you." Thordan's voice is cool, commanding, as unyielding as tempered steel, as cold as the depths of the deepest drifts. "A new child must needs be fed. Each of you will search the Brume and the villages and bring me three such who will not be missed, in case of the excesses of the still untrained, as they ever are." Most of them look grim but accepting. Laniaitte looks down and away, the lines of her body tense with misery, but unarguing.

Aymeric, brave, _stupid_ , daring Aymeric… Before he even speaks, as his head snaps up to retort, Estinien _feels_ what is happening and he starts to lunge forward only for a heavy fist to slam into the back of his head.

Staggered, seeing dark spots, he falls to his knees with a rough cry, knowing already they expected this. They planned for this.

Estinien distantly hears Aymeric's first protesting words until his own pain interrupts the lord and he spins, gaze gone wide and white with horror as massive hands grip the dragoon's arms, trying to still him as he struggles, tearing at their grip like he were a trapped wyrm himself, until there's a second ringing impact to the base of his skull and everything starts to fade away into darkness and despair.

As it claims him, he hears, fading into the distance, Thordan's calm voice. "When you have done as you're told, you can retrieve your toy from Charibert. I recommend being quick about it." There's a final, thorn-whip wave of agony and anger through the bond that tears away at what little control he has left to be conscious.

Then there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill: My inspiration and adoration is all for [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) and I continue to shamelessly encourage all FFXIV fic writers and readers to join us. <3
> 
> Please feel free to feed your writer with comments. ... Or threats possibly. >.>;
> 
> I'm sorry I love several characters I was mean to in this too but it's where the story was going!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As may have been predicted, this is heavier on the combat and injury; I do not think anything is overly graphic, but as always, be cautious and take care of yourself.

When Estinien wakes, his head still rings with the remnants of the earlier blows and he can feel the tension of matted blood pulling on his hair when he moves even slightly. Further indignities creep into his awareness like roots digging through bedrock; the excessive chill of the air against bared skin, a burning ache in his shoulders from the pull of arms tightly chained behind him, the duller throb of bruises and scrapes from being thrown against a rough stone floor. The space — whatever space he is in, although he can only assume somewhere owned or controlled by Charibert — is quiet, other than the faint rasp of his own breathing. Not without caution, the dragoon slits his gaze, then opens it fully.

The room is empty of other people, as expected. That part is good. The location is less so. The floor he has already made the acquaintance of from coming to lying on it like a forgotten doll, and the walls are much the same, hard stone with no windows. At the corner opposite him, near the doorway, a large brazier full of smouldering coals provides what heat there is, although its _other_ use is evident enough by the hooks holding iron and steel tools to the wall nearby. A sweep of eyes leaves little evidence of anything but the same; it is not one of the Vault's cells, which he has seen in passing, but the use is the same. Securing a prisoner and more importantly, _gathering information_. Theoretically, at least. Here, he imagines, the goals are largely purely based in sadistic glee.

Joints moving with pained stiffness from the cold and however long he lay immobile, Estinien carefully leverages himself up to sit leaning back into the corner, letting the chill of the stone try and dull some of the continued throbbing at the base of his skull. His finery of earlier in the evening is gone, replaced with a plain pair of breeches; even socks have been taken, nevermind the carefully worn and placed draconic relics. His head shifts, ear pressing to the wall because he cannot reach to touch it, confirming from the lack of pressure that even the magically useless cuff has been removed. That stings worse, somehow; it has no purpose, beyond showing his ties to Aymeric, and the casual disrespect inherent in the removal draws a low burn of resentment that helps him garner a hold on his thoughts and deal with his more immediate… _concerns._ Not fears.

Carefully, the dragon-blooded checks in his other senses, those familiar and not. The room smells surprisingly clean, other than a distant trace of sweat and blood, as if it's well looked-after. Or used often. He has worn the gold band relics long enough that he's relieved that a bit of concentration leads to a sense of their power _nearby_ , if not close enough he can tap into it; if it had been his own drachen mail, with years of familiarity, perhaps, but not with these yet. As he strains his mind a little further, he feels the brush of something else nearby, a flash of power like a streak of red lightning across the sky.

At first, he is fretful that he has triggered some defense of Charibert's, rapidly withdrawing all attempts to reach out for the power and waiting, breathless. Long minutes pass marked only by the rapid thud of his racing heart. When he finally, cautiously, allows a thread of awareness to reach out again, he can feel it still, distantly familiar, and now almost seeming to be seeking. Shifting, he wishes he could properly press a hand to his side or his scar, too used to using the gesture to help him focus. The sense of Aymeric's link to him is there, but distant and softened. In the city, he thinks, at least. Assuming that is where _he_ still is.

Time passes, although with no real markers to make of its passage, he knows not how much. More than a bell, by the slowly disintegrating coals, less than a night, as his body is not yet making full protestations over food known yet. Distantly, he hears a scrape of foot against floor and straightens, suspecting that some form of company is on the way. Carefully, Estinien arranges himself into the most casual posture he can manage. (Which is not to say very much, with his arms chained behind him, and to the wall as well. But he can affect an artless sprawl of legs, let the corner act to prop shoulders and head into a more alert posture, coolly train deep blue eyes on the doorway. This is _Ishgard_ , and even in the torturer's chambers, what face you show the world must be carefully shaped.)

Charibert strides in with his own utter confidence, having divested of the blue and white of the Ward — too easily stained, no doubt — in favor of the more practical leather and dark hues worn by the Inquisitors about their dirtier work. Of course, the matching calm in his prisoner draws a brief scowl to pale-stained lips. Unexpected is the second person who follows in his wake, a dark-haired woman in chaplain's garb and bearing a staff. _Ah. A healer to clean up the mess so he doesn't have to get bored, waiting_. He's a bit proud of himself for rationally holding onto that thought, instead of giving in to any of the queasy doubt in the deepest reaches of his belly.

The less said about what follows the better. He is dragged to stand in the middle of the room, hands hooked overhead, and receives a very _thorough_ education in the usage of flames, irons, and a particularly nasty cat'o'nine-tails with weighted tips. At least he can say that he succeeds in frustrating his tormenter by keeping his reactions to the bare minimum manageable (which is not, regretfully, nothing, but groans through gritted teeth and hissed breaths are far from the desired drama). In truth he's still more than a little tempted to weep in relief when Charibert is interrupted and drawn away and the chaplain steps in. Her hands are clinical as she heals away the worst the burns and wounds before departing, including the one at his skull that has kept his thoughts fuzzy. Even her magic does not fully fade the handprint seared against his right ribcage, though.

Once again, time passes in a haze. Left hanging, Estinien's arms and shoulders ache to the point he is concerned about more lasting damage if the chaplain doesn't do something about them later. Desperate to pass the time without sinking into despair and worries, he closes his eyes, casting out with what little grasp he has of his aetheric senses again. He may not know how it _works_ , but he knows the feel of draconic power, of using it to awaken his blood, and it's _so_ close, stored just far enough away that trying to grasp at the energy in the familiar relics is like stretching out his arm to brush fingertips against something he can't quite hook onto.

Once again, his seeking awakes that flash of sanguine lightning in his mind. This time, instead of panicking and backing away, Estinien waits to see what it does. There is a definite sense of something _looking_ at him; in its wake comes a steady trickle of draconic power, like a scaled form coiling around his limbs. The sensation is not a pleasant one, but it's not the first time a new relic has felt too much of the creature that birthed it and it will not prevent him from making use of the power it grants. Gritting his teeth, he waits out the sensation, feels the influx of foreign aether breathe fresh strength into his limbs, lessening the burning ache of shoulders and biceps, fading the lingering sting and pinpricks of injury. Why in the seven hells Charibert is hoarding an unused relic he knows not, but if he can make use of it…

For a moment, that new power seems to prod at the bonding scar and it is enough to make him shove back against the relic, letting his will snarl a protective warning to drive the draconic energy back again. At the surge of his emotion, he feels a dull throb of icy determination uncoil from the bond, barely felt before it is locked down again. While he can guess why Aymeric is keeping everything so guarded, he finds he misses the sense of awareness far more than he would have believed if someone had told him he would.

A second visit is marked by blades and brutality and ends with Charibert's teeth in his neck, drinking til the world goes gray and fuzzy around the edges from pain and blood loss.

It hurts as bad as Aymeric's warning said it would, without the vampiric magic interfering with his senses since his bond is "protecting" him, never mind the almost cauterizing rage and sense of violation that floods him at the pain. He clings to the seed of rage and resentment that pulses in the depths of his mind, uses it to push away the reality of what is happening, to shut it out as best he can. This time, when they leave, he is dropped unceremoniously back into the corner. The healer all but forces him to drain a canteen of broth before she leaves, he supposes to try and compensate for what has been taken. It is not enough.

Even after the chaplain's magic, everything _hurts_. Despite the discomfort, the toll on his body pulls him into sleep, propped against the cold stone wall, until a sudden intense (but not unpleasant) flare of emotional heat at his side draws Estinien to wakefulness. For a moment, half-dazed, he tries to process the meaning, the steady movement like a pulse of fierce determination swelling over him. The relic's power skitters along his nerves, seeming to feed on the sensation, and suddenly more alert than he would have thought he was capable of, the dragon-blooded carefully reorders himself to sit again.

He can't touch the bonding scar right now, but there's no question now that it is the source of the focus flooding into him and the soothing heat of righteous anger, somewhere… Without conscious thought, his head lifts, looking above him and pulled unerringly in a clear direction. _Near_. Beyond that, if Aymeric's mood is what it has become, well… He had not been sure if he'd hoped that the other man would comply with the request given him, precisely, because he could guess what it would have cost him to act against his own code thusly. The consequences of not doing so, however…

_Well. Naught I can do in this position but wait._ Estinien sets his jaw grimly, attention focused around the bond and what he can use of it to track Aymeric's progression nearer to his location. When the sense of _presence_ becomes powerful enough he can almost _taste_ it, alternating waves of worry and anger beating against him as if he were the shoreline, his eyes lock onto the door, waiting. Still weak without further support, so long as he can reach it, he keeps pulling on the power of the unfamiliar nearby relic, using it to bolster his body and mind.

When the door opens with a violent crash, he tenses, even with _knowing_ through the bond that it is Aymeric and that he is largely unhurt. Then pale blue eyes catch his own, register his alertness and the sheer relief that he can feel flooding over him cuts in an entirely different way from the earlier steel, slicing into the soft inner marrow of his soul. Somehow, despite himself, despite the aches and the low energy buzzing over her nerves, he finds lips curling into a small, fiercely grim smile of welcome. The knight is bloodied enough from getting here, but he has seen Aymeric in worse states on the battlefield and for the other's sake, he hopes the vampire was able to breach the building without too much killing in the picture. He at least had the sense to dress appropriately for a real fight; not the ornate armor of his formal role, but the simple, sturdy soldier's mail of their youth, an odd contrast to the gleaming blue of his blade.

He sees the bob of a hard swallow trace in the vampire's throat, then the low voice that draws him as Aymeric moves closer, slowly sinking to crouch at Estinien's side. "Estinien… I am so sorry." The dragoon gives a very slight shake of his head in protest, even as the vampire reaches to brush fingertips against a dirt and blood-smeared cheek. If he did not know the other man so well, he might miss the slight trembling in them, the way just a little too much white shows around Aymeric's pale irises to betray fear. "I believe the key I found outside will free you." 

The idea of being _loose_ is incredibly compelling and never mind the lingering damage and ache; Estinien rapidly scoots himself forward enough for the knight to draw his hands to where they can be seen, a series of short, sharp clicks marking as each of the two manacles is undone. When the dragoon goes to bring his arms around to rub at the raw and half-asleep flesh, he finds broad hands reaching to try and pick him up, cradle him in against Aymeric's chest. With a brief huff of breath, he shoves (gently, he must admit) against the vampire's torso. "You need to be able to fight if we are to get out of the building. I believe my things are in the next room."

Estinien can hear the dry and weary rasp to his own words and he's not too proud for now to push aside Aymeric wrapping his non-sword arm around him for support, letting the knight help him hobble down the hall to what appears to be a storage room of some kind. Within, they find the relics, which of necessity, given his state, Aymeric insists on putting into a bag and carrying, rather than letting the dragon-blooded replace them over his wounds. The ear cuff, however, he refuses to relinquish, fastening it back into place and pretending he doesn't notice the subtle softening of the lines of Aymeric's features, the slight hint of a wet gleam at the corner of pale eyes. That done, Estinien searches further, eventually at least finding a pair of boots and shirt that will make for passable enough cover.

Then for the last item, whatever the relic is that has been nearly shivering with excitement since he came into the room, arcane energy thick in the air like humidity in the distant memories of midsummer heat. Ignoring the questioning look from the vampire, he drags a crate over to let him reach an ornate box on a high shelf. It turns out to be locked, a matter that Estinien solves in the most direct of manners by lifting it box and throwing it to the ground with as much force as he can manage. Amidst splinters of gilded and painted wood, a massive ruby rolls out, winking in the dim light.

For a few seconds, they both stare, then Estinien clambers carefully down and leans to scoop up the stone, grasping it tightly in his hand. Warmth and aether bring vigor back in a flood, push pain to the edge of awareness, letting him stand straighter, curling his lips into a feral grin. Aymeric seems rather less pleased, a small line drawn between his brows. "Is that… a dragon's eye? How did you know it was there?"

He reaches for Estinien's hand, to draw it closer and take a better look, and the dragoon is startled by the momentary impulse to growl and draw away, hiding his prize. The confusion turns his smile back into a frown and he stubbornly opens his fingers, lets Aymeric turn the rounded red stone over in his hand, something flashing gold and black in its depths. "I could feel it, even in the cell. It _wants_ me to use it. And we probably need the help to get us both out of the city alive."

Wariness flickers over Aymeric's features and there is a flash of resentment in him again that he is not sure is his own, then the vampire gives a slow nod. "Alright. I had things packed and sent ahead. If we can make it to one of the bridges…" Estinien nods agreement and tucks the stone into the pocket of his stolen shirt. 

((-----))

They have attained the main floor and even the front hallway, where Aymeric gently guides Estinien into leaning against the wall before he heads for the cloak rack, clearly intending a bit more larcenous acquisitioning of necessary supplies for heading out into the Ishgard weather. One hand is extended when there is the sound of a cleared throat, then a disdainful voice. "Oh, no, this won't do at all. I'm quite sure you're not supposed to have _that_ back in your possession yet." A flick of all but colorless eyes makes it clear enough _who_ Charibert means in his dismissive words and Estinien finds a low growl vibrating his chest, surprised himself at how easily it comes to the surface.

For a split-second, Aymeric goes very still, and the bonding scar goes cold as ice and brittle as flint. Drawing Naegling again he turns, stance loose and fluid in a way that speaks to Estinien only of familiar violence, the deadly grace of the battlefield. "I have made promises. Allow me to keep them." For a second, his gaze lifts to his bonded, and there is a hint of warmth to the ice, despite the words that follow carrying a protective weight of pressure. "Wait a moment."

Estinien can feel an uncoiling, seeking tendril of offended aether from the ruby eye, offered to him to push back against the command and after a moment he shoves it back down and away. If Aymeric needs him, that is one matter, but for now… He knows who he would bet on in combat normally, fully unleashed, no matter which of them has most recently supped from his own power.

There is the tiniest hint of a smile at his acceptance, then Aymeric is in movement. Estinien wonders, idly, if the fire-weaver has ever had to fight another of his new kind before who _wasn't_ restrained by respect for his power, by fear of angering Thordan. Aymeric is well past such concerns now. The sound of armored feet against stone as the knight charges across the open floor to close the gap echoes loudly in the confined space, a frenzied cacophonous drumbeat.

Charibert draws his staff, prepares to cast a spell, and is thoroughly interrupted when throwing himself away from Aymeric's first strike leaves him open for the balled fist of a punch aimed straight for his smug smile. The clash of staff on sword covers the sound but not the sight of Charibert having to spit out a tooth, which draws a swell of fierce satisfaction to Aymeric's face. After that, while he pulls flame to his hands and the room, trying to overwhelm with it, the knight is relentless in weathering and pressing the attack. (And, of course, dressed in mail meant to help survive dragon fire, which now seems even wiser than it did before.)

There are a few points where he's almost afraid that Aymeric is _playing_ with the spell-slinger, but in the end, it's a shockingly short time before a carefully aimed blow of Naegling parts the arm holding the cane from Charibert's body. Barely pausing as the other vampire howls in pain and reaches for the stump, flame coming to his hand to cauterize it, the knight flings himself in and drives up; a single brutal swing that ends in a flood of red blood and the quiet, meaty echo of the Inquisitor's head hitting the floor.

Aymeric goes still, waiting, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths that shake his shoulders. Checking to see that he can move freely, Estinien lets out a soft, faint puff of relief, then walks to his lord's side, one hand coming up to rest against a broad, mail-covered back. "It's done and over, Aymeric. The details of it do not matter, only that he's dead and we still have to go." There is a hint of shocked confusion to the knight's expression, a muddle of relief and angered resentment in the bond, emotions unable to settle in a single place for long. For a moment, he shifts, uncomfortable, then breathing out again, the dark-haired man stoops to clean the blood off of his blade. That done, he turns back to Estinien, pale eyes a little too bright, as if fevered.

"Grab a cloak." An easy enough order to follow and while he briefly considers grabbing the fallen staff to use as a walking stick, Estinien decides it will draw more eyes than it will provide help. Wrapping a cloak around himself as well as he can and pulling up the hood, he watches Aymeric do the same before the pair slips out through the door. The sky is showing the first streaks of pre-dawn lightening, which draws Estinien's gut tense in worry; they are _not_ simply headed home and he doesn't know how well Aymeric will do outside once the sun is up. Still, there is no other choice, and the two of them weave through the sparse people in the residential area.

As soon as they can, they find a spot to drop to the lower, less trafficked levels, picking up their pace; running would have been obvious, among the civilians, but in these areas, used now mainly by servants and the poor, the risk can be taken. Estinien can feel the worry for him, at this speed, injured, and in an attempt to soothe it, allows himself to pull more on the seemingly massive reserves of the newly acquired relic, let the red-hot crackling power of it strengthen his limbs and lungs so he can keep up the pace of clattering feet.

Twice, they manage to evade patrols ducking around corners and changing levels; once, they are caught, and without a lance, all Estinien can do is watch as Aymeric does his best to injure three guardsmen enough to let them keep moving. At least, he thinks all he does is injure them badly enough to stop pursuit; neither has time to check and knowing the knight as he does, it's no doubt a question that will come back on restless and guilt-ridden nights. It is still not even really a choice.

((-----))

Dawn is breaking fully by the time they manage to reach an old bridge, supposedly too damaged for safe use anymore as it cuts across the clouds, back towards the surrounding cliffs. It will have to do. Picking their way across is slow, Aymeric pulling his hood forward more over his face as the dim light increases.

At the far side, a woman stands, holding the reins to a pair of chocobos.

It takes a second of confusion at the sheer surprise to place her in this context, then Estinien rumbles questioningly, "Heustienne, why are you here?"

The other blood-bonded looks to him with a wry smile, lifting her occupied hands as if to show she is not a threat. "Because Charibert was an embarrassment to Halone and if there was no way to deal with him openly, allowing everyone to know that the Lord Commander killed him and there was infighting within the Court would make things worse right now." She pulls the two chocobos forward, brawny yellow birds, unremarkable. "Zephirin cares more that the church survives. And the best thing for that is for you and Charibert to disappear for a while. Someone else is taking care of whatever mess you left, while I…" She trails off and smiles smugly. After all, this will put Estinien in her debt, however informally, and take her back to the position of the most powerful dragon-blooded in the city. Not a bad deal for her. Still…

"And that's all?" The dragoon narrows his eyes, Aymeric moving closer to relieve Heustienne of one set of reins, introducing himself to the bird with a proffered hand.

"That depends on if you found anything of interest at Charibert's bolthole. There was cause to suspect he may have been hoarding things that rightfully should have been in the church coffers." His body acts without him, a hand flattening over the shirt pocket hiding away the ruby, and Heustienne's eyes spark bright with interest. "You did find something!"

Instinct screams at him not to pull forth the hidden treasure. "One thing, but it answers to me already. Search his manor for more, for all I care." Carefully, he pushes his boldness, steps forward to grab the second set of reins, jaw set firmly.

"Prove it." Her voice is calm, steady, but unflinching; she is rested and garbed in her drachen mail and relics, while he is beaten and exhausted, Aymeric battle-worn and frayed by worry. They can ill afford another fight.

Reluctantly, every motion like moving through syrup, Estinien pulls out the ruby, cupping it protectively in his hand to show her. Even as he does so, it flares with inner light, pulsing in his grip like a captured heart. He locks his eyes on the other dragon-blooded's face, defiant. "Proof enough?" 

Something falls in her face, to behold that, and Estinien can only wonder what she knows that they do not. Spitting out a brief curse, she steps away, expression darkened. "It does choose you. Very well. Get on to where you're going and don't stay long. We're trying to keep the church _un_ marred by obvious internal conflict." As soon as she's finished speaking, she flings herself forward in a leap as impressive as any he could manage on a good day, on her way back to Ishgard.

Aymeric's eyes are heavy on him and he steps closer as if to help Estinien mount his chocobo but stops when the dragon-blooded pulls himself up, if awkwardly. Questions can wait. Doing the same, the vampire then cants his head, hood pulled low, and they kick the birds into a run and do their best to disappear into the fallen snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill: My inspiration and adoration is all for [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) and I continue to shamelessly encourage all FFXIV fic writers and readers to join us. <3
> 
> Please feed your writer with comments, I'm deseperate. XD


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always nice to get to visit with some actually friendly faces, here. No particular warnings this time!

In favorable weather, the ride to Camp Dragonhead is usually between one to two bells. That does not account for the fact that one of them has undergone some rather harrowing physical trauma in the preceding days and the other spent much of the night fighting. Keeping the two chocobos moderated to one another's speed slows them as well, especially as Aymeric's seems to struggle a bit more with the deeper snow. Still, given that they expected to be _walking_ , it seems petty to complain.

By the time the camp comes into view, Aymeric is visibly shivering, much to Estinien's growing worry, despite the cloak still pulled up and forward to shield his face. Pulling on the reins to move his bird in closer, the dragoon reaches across the gap to briefly lay a hand on the vampire's arm, feeling how much the wintery chill has sunk into his clothing. "Are they expecting us?"

Aymeric's eyes alight on him, just bright enough to be seen under the shade of his hood. "Before I came to retrieve you, I sent our packs on ahead and warned the servants they may want to leave the city. Barring something else having happened, they should be alerted to our impending arrival by now." There is a risk to that, certainly, but he cannot blame Aymeric for watching out for the rest of the household, even if it increases the odds someone will sell them out, sooner or later.

Digging his heels back in, Estinien nods understanding, urging the chocobo forward. Time to see who or what greets them.

((-----))

As they approach the gates, a pair of guards steps forward, crossing swords; there's really no need for them to call out for identification at that point, even if they do anyway. With a glance back at Aymeric, uncertain, Estinien draws his hood back to fall around his shoulders instead of shrouding his features. "Estinien Wyrmblood and companion. We have business with Ser Greystone." One of them steps forward enough to peer underneath Aymeric's still-covering hood and the dragoon has to suppress a brief surge of protective instinct. He has no weapon anyway, although that will hopefully be remedied shortly.

After a brief examination, the soldier nods them through, pointing to a wooden door set low into the central area, almost out of sight behind the bulk of the commander's office. "You're expected. We were told to have you proceed to the Intercessory." Sketching a minute bow — if they are reliant on these people, better to err on the side of polite before he pisses someone off — Estinien slips from his chocobo's back, wincing as his feet hit the ground and he's reminded of his various aches and wounds. Turning, he intends to offer Aymeric a hand down as well, but finds it not needed.

Pausing, he holds the reins out to the other soldier. "Ah. The mounts are borrowed. I assume there is room in the stables until their owner comes to retrieve them?" The man instead waves over a third soldier, who takes the two birds towards the stables. That taken care of, Estinien meets Aymeric's eyes for a moment, reading the exhaustion in them, then he trudges the small distance through the tamped down snow of the fort to the indicated door.

If he is honest with himself, he's damnably tense until they're both within and the door is shut and the room proves to be blessedly empty. From what he can read of him, Aymeric is far less worried, and while it is sweet that he trusts to old friends that much, _Estinien_ feels the need to continue to be a little more paranoid. The knight moves straight over to the fireplace, standing almost perilously near to it, finally lowering his hood now that they are indoors. Drawing in a slow breath as he carefully scans the room one more time, still tense, the dragoon finally lets himself pace to join him. For a brief second, Aymeric's hand reaches to capture and hold his and he clutches back, then there is the sound of the door handle starting to turn and they quickly drop the grip and turn to face it.

Both men that step within are familiar, if not historically seen in close proximity by choice. While he can't be bothered to keep too close track of the noble houses, even his level of avoidance had it seep through the departed Countess Fortemps was notoriously bitter about her husband's bastard son and that there was a history of family tension because of it. Right now, however, it would be hard to guess that; both Haurchefant's blue-grey haired figure and Artoirel's dark haired one are in matching mail trimmed in Fortemps colors, and their body language seems similar to what he'd expect from soldiers working together but without a close friendship. Tellingly, Haurchefant drops a heavy wooden bar across the door in their wake.

Arguably, he could be trapping them in there to attack them, but Estinien has trouble imaging either Artoirel or Haurchefant changing _that_ much from his memories of earlier, easier days. They had been honorable men, if not necessarily people he was close to. Aymeric certainly shows nothing but trust, striding forward to clasp Haurchefant's hand in greeting. (A distinctively… different… sort of clasp from the one the door interrupted.) "My dear friend. It is good to see you again, even if in these less than ideal circumstances."

"Yes, you are going to cause something of a stir when people realize you've disappeared from the city, aren't you?" Haurchefant's tone has an element of his usual lightness but is weighted enough to show that he is aware of the risk to their situation. "I have to say, I was surprised to hear that you were on your way. We had to scramble a bit to get things secreted away and I imagine there will be bribes to be paid to the guards on duty. Still, I think we have a safe room where you can recover for a few days before pressing onwards."

"We are very much in your debt. I wish I did not have to impose on you, but I confess that traveling by daylight was significantly more draining than I expected. Beyond that, if there is a healer you trust on staff…" Aymeric's voice trails off hopefully, glancing beyond to include Artoirel in the implied question. He adds, softer, guilt painting his voice thick, "Before I left, I did confirm that your brother survived his transformation. I cannot say if it was easy or hard or what happened after, but I can provide at least that small scrap of comfort if you or your father did not already know."

Estinien has to turn his gaze aside at the brief flash of raw relief and pain that twists Artoirel's face, awkward in the presence of the other man's clear emotions. Haurchefant, at least, conceals his reaction better. The mention of family, much less their relief at the continued survival of their younger brother, scrapes over old, internal wounds of the soul that he still tries to ignore. Wrapping one arm across his chest, he steps back further, leaning against the wall. Setting himself apart from the others. There's a subtle shift in the tension of Aymeric's shoulders, enough that he suspects the other man is aware of his withdrawal but is doing him the kindness of not drawing attention to it.

For a few minutes, he does his best to tune out the rest of the discussion, at least until Artoirel approaches him, now returned to his previous composure. "While they catch up, allow me to show you the trick to getting through to the old, deep storerooms." He beckons towards a tall shelf along the same wall as the fireplace, the nobleman demonstrating how to work a latch hidden in the metal trim, swinging it out and away from the wall to reveal a dark passage beyond. "The handle on the other side is obvious if you've got a light with you. Once you get around the bend and down the stairs, there are candles in the sconces, but no point in lighting them when no one is using the place. Haurchefant dropped your things off earlier in the furthest storeroom." Leaning over, he grabs a lantern off the nearby table, seeming less willing to waste time in pleasantries than his half-brother as he glances back at the other two, voice raising just enough to catch their attention. "On which note, I think it would be best if we showed our guests through to their 'quarters' and went back to making this look as typical a day as possible, if you please."

Haurchefant has the decency to look a little sheepish at the reminder. Aymeric keeps his usual steady mien, although it does nothing to hide his continued weariness from Estinien's knowing gaze. The two quickly move to join them, the quartet in silver and ebony descending the old stone steps around a bend and after a short hall of storerooms, down one more level. The air has a distinctively dusty and abandoned smell, even if the door to the small room that Artoirel leads them to reveals a clean enough space. Several familiar travel sacks are stacked by one wall. The contents are sparse otherwise; a pair of bedrolls heavily supplemented by stacks of blankets and furs, a crate of food and drink, two lanterns, and a small table. Outside of that and the lack of brazier, it's uncomfortably close to the cell that had contained him all too recently and for a brief second, Estinien swallows down a swell of bile in his throat, a soft pulse of power from the dragon's eye relic helping him push past the discomfort.

The influx of aetheric energy is a reassurance, as is the moment when the greater calm lets him take in the lance leaned near his own armor by their things. _Not_ his lance, admittedly, which would have been difficult to smuggle out subtly, but even a quick glance assures him of enough quality that he will not feel utterly unarmed if he must defend himself. Or, more importantly, Aymeric. Haurchefant's good natured voice drones on, the most important part he registers being a promise that a healer will be down in the next bell or two, as soon as he can get one pulled aside without calling attention.

"Thank you, again. You have been far too kind." Aymeric's words are as heartfelt as he ever is and it takes no real grace for social matters to see Haurchefant's honest regret at having to leave the other man languishing in a basement storeroom, rather than treated the way another member of the nobility normally would be. As soon as the two sons of house Fortemps have departed, Estinien unwinds his cloak and drops it to the side, starting to unfold blankets and furs and put the small stacks into a semblance of a bed with enough size and warmth to allow both of them to sleep.

Glancing up at his bondmate for a moment, he cannot resist a gentle needling, voice quieter than it probably needs to be in this hidden location. "If only I had known the sort of luxury I'd see as your companion." When Aymeric's only answer is an exhausted sigh as he starts to unfasten his own cloak and heads for their bags, Estinien frowns, stilling in his self-appointed duty. "Aymeric?"

The vampire finishes pulling out a change of clothes, which alright, is not an _unreasonable_ desire given that he is still adorned with Charibert's blood. For that matter, whoever the hell's clothing he found in the man's storeroom would not be missed if he changed out of it. Clambering back to his feet, he pauses to lay a hand against Aymeric's currently bared back as he reaches for one of his packs, intending to follow suit.

The other man's skin is far colder to the touch than usual, even after standing by the fire and Estinien cannot stop the inward hiss of concerned breath at the sensation. The touch combined with finally being alone and presumably safe seems to unlock something and Aymeric is quick to turn at the sound, dragging him forward and into the tightly gripped circle of his arms. A face presses into his shoulder and he has no desire to do anything but hold back tightly in return, letting each of them give and take reassurance and comfort. It is only when he feels a trickle of dampness seep through the linen of his shirt that he realizes that the vampire is crying. With another uneven breath, finding himself surprisingly gentle, the dragoon reaches up and threads his fingers through the hair at the back of Aymeric's head, holding him in closer until he feels the man take a deep breath and try to straighten.

At that, he lets go of his grip, stripping the borrowed — alright, technically, stolen — shirt off and handing it to Aymeric to mop his face. Perhaps his first impulse once would have been more teasing, yet it is hard to do so when he actively feels the chill and tautness of the other man's emotions through the bonds. So instead, he leans in, pausing to briefly press a kiss to Aymeric's cheek, self-conscious at doing so. "Finish changing. I know you will refuse to feed unless I have been healed, but we can at least rest and eat some normal food while we wait for the chirurgeon." 

It's almost frightening, sometimes, how quickly Aymeric can shove his emotions back away, at least visibly, as within a span of a few minutes he has changed to a simple tunic and pants (actually possibly the simplest items of clothing Estinien has _ever_ seen him wear, outside of sleeping) and regained his usual calm facade. He does not actually feel much calmer, though, as the dragoon changes as well, glad to be shed of the reminders of Charibert and his home. He even takes a moment to kick the discarded clothes off into a corner.

That accomplished, with a brief tug at Aymeric's arm of encouragement, he settles to lean gingerly against the wall by the crate of consumables, feeling all the sore points on his back all over again. Sorting through the contents, he pulls out a bottle of wine and some dried meat, handing the first to the vampire to open. As he does so, Estinien tears into the food, even the slight scent of the preserved stuffs enough to turn his gut into a howling void of demand. The other eats as well, if more sparsely, and the dragoon must remind himself that gorging will only lead to regrets, cutting himself off after a modest amount. With a tired sigh, he then shifts, moving so he can lean very slightly to Aymeric's side, one of the knight's arms settling across his shoulders.

He does not _intend_ to fall asleep, but it's been a very long time since true rest for both of them.

((-----))

The sound of a knock at the door wakes them. By the difference in the oil levels in the lanterns, it has not been terribly long, no more than a bell or two. Shifting to rise to his feet and check to see who it is, Estinien is halted in his tracks by Aymeric's soft voice, just a hint of push behind the words. "You still have worse injuries than I do, and we were expecting a healer. I can answer the door." The look in those pale blue eyes attempts a mild scolding, to which he pays absolutely no mind, even if he does accept the argument enough to merely tense in preparation for moving to attack if need be.

Unnecessarily, as when Aymeric opens the door it is to a Hyur woman in conjurer's robes, who bows politely. "G'day, sers. I was told there would be healing to be done?" She smiles warmly, holding up a bag of supplies as she steps in. "D'you have a care for who I start with?"

"Him." The same answer comes from two mouths, although Aymeric's is followed up by a polite "please." 

The healer laughs. "Sorry, the one w' the manners wins." She bustles over and sets her bag down near Estinien's side, coaxing him to move away from the wall a little even as he glares daggers at Aymeric for a moment. Both the vampire and the healer ignore that as she begins the process of evaluating and treating what damage remains from Charibert's final visit. The strange heat of magic closes cuts and eases the itching of the tears at his neck from the unwanted feeding; it is the one time he feels the need to say something, when her gaze briefly flicks to Aymeric and he mutters defensively, "He didn't do it. Let off." She lingers awhile over the half-healed burn print from the dead mage's hand, but even now, it cannot be erased completely. Seeing that, for a few heartbeats, Estinien closes his eyes, then lets out a soft breath as she moves on into the non-magical means, salving and bandaging.

When the healer is done, she warns in a firm voice, "You're drained and have been straining your aether reserves. Rest as much as your body will let you and _eat_ , you need to replenish yourself. No being bitten for at least three days." 

_That_ draws a response from the dragon-blooded, lips curling back to show his teeth. "Aymeric can't go three days without food, any more than I could." He hears the start of a protest from the lord at that and tenses further, catching eyes with his and glaring.

"Which he won't. I will be back towards evening; Ser Haurchefant and Ser Artoirel have agreed to allow themselves to be bled as a source since they don't want anyone here being directly fed on. I'll bring a flask then." The healers voice is calm and shows she expects no argument, nor will she respect any that is given. The answer draws frowns from both men, even if privately, Estinien would admit he thinks he prefers this to Aymeric having to go out to feed or having to watch it happen. After a moment, he makes a rough sound and lifts his chin to gesture to the vampire, indicating he would rather the healer move on to seeing to him.

The Lord de Borel is a far more amenable patient, to be sure, making quiet conversation with the healer as she closes his relatively few battle wounds, ending with a lecture on his own need for rest. Estinien watches the entire exchange intently, unable to shake some of his sense of paranoia, although he will admit there is no real reason for it. Still, once she leaves them with salves, painkillers, and more bandages if need be and departs, he feels more relaxed.

A little, anyway. He still brings the bag holding his relics over to lie near the bed, feeling better with them close at hand, particularly the Eye. Even if he already knows that if he were to try to wear any of them right now Aymeric will protest terribly. That done, he finally stretches out on the bedrolls, turning onto his side to look for the noble. Sure enough, the dark-haired man seems momentarily lost in his own thoughts, at least until the dragoon clears his throat. "Come to bed. It has to be near mid-day and we are under orders to _rest_ , didn't you hear?" As much as he has weighing down his own mind, he suspects Aymeric is in just as much disarray. Trying to talk before they sleep seems pointless, though.

After a second, the vampire shakes himself free from his reverie, offering a weary smile that tries to be reassuring. "We are." The storeroom is small enough that it is just a few steps til he can settle down into their new sleeping spot as well, curling deep beneath the layers of blankets and furs. Once settled, Aymeric reaches out, pulling Estinien closer to him and drawing his head down for a long, lingering kiss, gentle but full of all the things they cannot say at this moment.

It is much easier to fall asleep, after that, curled in and pressed close until Aymeric’s body finally grows comfortably warm against his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill: My inspiration and adoration is all for [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) and I continue to shamelessly encourage all FFXIV fic writers and readers to join us. ♥
> 
> Please feed your writer with comments, I am oh so very hungry~


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings, other than hi, I continue to demonstrate my ongoing obsession with showing Estinien bathing. Oops.

Sometime after dark — or so he has to assume, given the rather underground and unwindowed nature of their accommodations — the healer returns, bearing a glass flask filled with blood, a small wooden tub, and fire and water crystals for filling and heating it. "The good Sers noticed y' might need a bit of a washup after your last stay. This is the best we can do down here, though." Estinien is perfectly happy to let Aymeric handle thanking her and shooing her back on her way again, trying not to feel mildly insulted or to sniff at himself suspiciously. He _has_ missed several days given his time with Charibert, hair still trapped (and probably matted into) the fancy braid that seems like it was plaited into his hair half a year ago at this point.

It is only after she has left that Aymeric feels comfortable enough to pick up the flask, eyeing it with a certain distaste before he drains the entire thing in one long pull, rather like he used to do mugs of ale when someone made the mistake of challenging him at drinking. Estinien has to think that he looked a lot happier about the ale. Dragging the back of one hand across his lips to make sure they are clean, Aymeric drops the flask back down by the door for later retrieval, a faint expression of distaste on his features, as well as clear self-consciousness. He then turns back, voice carefully neutral. "Perhaps I should bathe first, as I think getting you back to normal is likely to render the water unsuitable for further use."

Thinking of the blood still trapped from his healed head wound, not to mention all the dirt and grime of the cell, the smoke and ash from the irons, is more than enough to make even Estinien flush in slight embarrassment. "Right." When Aymeric goes to dig in his bags for, he suspects, soap and such fussiness as an alternative to the harsh, basic bar left in the small tub, he uses the crystals to fill and heat the water, grateful for the basic training all soldiers get in these sort of small necessities. Sure enough, by the time that is done, the nobleman has a towel, soap, and bottles of some sort of… something… for the hair lined up.

Settling himself against the wall to wait, Estinien leans his head back, enough to grant him the illusion that he is not _actively_ watching Aymeric strip and go through the motions of bathing. Because if he is not staring directly, it clearly doesn't count as ogling or enjoying the view or — or anything else. There is a certain relief when the rather minimal bath ends quickly, the vampire redressing in a fresh set of clothes. "Don't snarl — Yes, like that —" He was not _snarling_ , he was just curling his lip. A little. "But you're going to need help getting your hair undone. Unless you want me just to cut it all off."

He thinks about it for a while. _Really_ thinks about it, in truth; the length of his hair has more to do with not wanting to deal with styling and upkeep than anything else. Which points straight to the innate appeal of the simple solution of just taking a knife to it at the nape and not having to worry about it more than the minimum. The only problem with that solution? Aymeric has a wooden comb in his hand and is looking at him in a manner he can only describe as _hopeful_ , and the stupid, soft, weak core of him does not want to see disappointed sadness in the other man's eyes. After a long moment, he lets out a weary sigh and stands, shucking clothes on his way to the small tub. "Fine. You can try and fix it. If it is too much bother, though, just cut the damn braid off." 

Climbing into the practical _puddle_ of water in the tiny tub, he does his best to scrub himself down as Aymeric starts to work the braid loose, encountering tangles in very little time. As it ends up, he has to sit, attempting not to lean against the edge of the tub and tip it, knees squashed up against his chest, for long enough for the water to lose heat and have to be rewarmed as the vampire's hands patiently undo mats and knots, rinsing away blood and dirt and using the comb to pick apart deeply snarled strands. As water sinks in to soften the scabbed blood near the base of his scalp where he was struck by armored fists, Aymeric notes in a quiet voice, "I know it would have been easier to cut it, but so much is changing, so quickly. In a few days, we will not even be in Coerthas, much less everything else that has become completely different from the world we knew in our youth. Forgive my sentimentality in wanting to keep you from seeming different as well." Undeterred by any lingering mess, the vampire leans in close enough to brush lips across the back of one ear, sending a soft pulse of heat through the dragoon's body, as much about the affection of it then the physicality.

Ducking his head, Estinien clears his throat roughly. "It's forgiven, so long as you finish up quickly. My arse hurts from sitting in this tub." The laughter that answers the complaint is calming; he may be sentimental and worried, but so long as mirth still comes to Aymeric without too much strain, he is not lost to melancholy. Thankfully, it's only a few more minutes before Aymeric helps him sieve water through his hair and declares it good enough. More than happy to get out of the tub and change into dry, warmer clothes, Estinien shakes his hair out, impressed at just how smooth it is considering the mess beforehand. Maybe there is some _small_ merit to the fancy hair products that Aymeric cares enough to bother with.

There is extraordinarily little to do, after that. And they have at least two more nights of this. Estinien decides it might be better for his ego not to consider how long they sit in silence before he can bear it no longer and must break the quiet — it would be one thing if they were outdoors, if he could keep watch, if he could be _useful_ in some way! "Is the idea of leaving Coerthas truly that unsettling to you?"

Reaching across the slight gap between them, Aymeric's hand slides into his, skin calloused and slightly chilled. Enough so that he grips tighter, instinctively sharing warmth. "It both is and is not; I know it is not forever, but it feels a great deal as if I am running away, giving up on my dreams of being able to change things. Yet…" He shifts, moving a little so he can lean back to the stone wall, gaze turned up to the ceiling. "In truth, I had largely given up anyway, after being turned. I had thought —" The vampire's voice cuts off and a deep, heavy weight presses down against the bonding scar, emotional instead of physical, but the sheer force of it is overwhelming.

Casting his mind back to the earliest days after his return to Ishgard, Estinien frowns, shifting to draw one leg up to his chest. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, where things have been shifting and aligning, a piece settles into clarity. "You planned to push them until you became too much trouble to keep dealing with and one of the Ward killed you." He turns his head, reading the subtle tells of guilt and shame, certain that he is correct. " _Aymeric._ "

Dark hair falling into his eyes as he lowers his head, voice soft and low, Aymeric gives a very small lift and drop of his shoulders. "Until you were there to remind me of what parts of me had not changed, I had thought —" A slight hesitation again, already foreseeing the response to what he says next, no doubt. "I saw myself as little better than a walking corpse, trying not to infect too many others with my rot. Yet still, weak and greedy, when they found the right person to threaten me with… I gave in. Dragged you in and destroyed you along with me, even if I tried to tell myself I did it to protect you."

Something deep within him snaps to a jagged edge, splinters into rough shards that tear at the very heart of him, trying to contemplate that. Contemplating stubborn, eternally hopeful Aymeric, so lost in his own doubt and self-distrust that he had for all intents and purposes given up completely and had sought his own death. Some secondary realization nags at his mind and he slides away from it, not able to bear looking too closely at that too as he finds himself snarling softly, hand clenched down hard enough on the nobleman's that his knuckles have gone white and bloodless. "Aymeric. My lord. You are not, you were _never_ so weak and greedy as you saw yourself. Even when you came and took me, I did not think of you so. Dangerous, perhaps. Briefly, even, corrupted, but I —" Oh, _Halone_ , he does not know the words to say, the actions to perform to soothe this, and he is stumbling like a fool in desperately trying to. "Even that first night, I could still see the man I had known. See my dearest friend."

The laugh that answers him is low and bitter and unable to bear it any longer, Estinien turns, wrapping arms around Aymeric now, feeling the moment of brief stiffness before the other man gives in and curls closer to him. "I confess, I still do not, cannot understand how you have been able to forgive me for what I did. I will never forgive myself." Moving his hand up, the dragoon slips fingers through dark hair, twining the locks at the nape of the other's neck around his fingers in an attempt at comfort.

The little voice of realization is trying to get his attention and he steadfastly ignores it, buys himself a second's time as he presses lips lightly to Aymeric's forehead. "You are no dragon, come to destroy all that I knew, murderer of those I love. I do not know what I would have said if you had asked beforehand. Likely nothing good. Yet…" Words jostle one another in his throat, choking him, and it is a struggle to pull free ones that are good enough, that will make a convincing argument without simultaneously tearing his own skin open to reveal the beating heart beneath. "I was alone for a long time, after leaving the city. I had not realized how desperately I wanted to have someone near again. What came was unexpected and hard but worth it to have a friend at my side once more."

The thought unfurls like the first sprout rising from the soil after the snowmelt and he can no more stop its whisper into his mind than he could have stopped the seasons on his own. _You had not realized you were in love with him, you mean._ For a moment, it hangs and lingers, like a mote of dust in a beam of light, brilliantly illuminated, then sheer panic at the realization hits him as if he had stood in front of a charging dragon unarmed and been tossed aside. Dragging in a deep breath through flared nostrils, he does his best to force his face back to steely calm, catching the slight confusion in Aymeric's expression when he looks up before answering.

"You, Estinien? You regretted being alone? That is rather _unlike_ you, is it not?"

By all Halone's blessed _halls_ , sometimes the man is too insightful for his own good. Voice rough, Estinien shifts his weight, tenses, then tries to relax again, to look like none of this matters over much. "Once we became friends, I have always found your company more pleasant than being alone. That did not change after our reunion." It is a simple answer, but more importantly it is a true one, which hopefully will make it believable. After a moment, Aymeric makes a slight sound of understanding and resettles, letting his head rest on Estinien's shoulder. Breathing out in a soft breath of relief, the dragoon adds, more gently yet dancing dangerously close to raw honesty, "I still have faith in your ability to make the world better, Aymeric. Whether from Ishgard or wherever we end up waiting out the time til we can go back. Just as it ever was, my lance is yours to command."

That draws a tiny smile forth on Aymeric's lips, small but honest as he curls a lock of Estinien's restored hair around his fingertips. "I am still unsure I deserve such trust, but I could never bring myself to deny it or stop trying to live up to it now that I know I still have it." 

Drawing out a rough sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, Estinien gradually relaxes into the knight's form, allowing himself to fall quiet for now as he attempts to argue with himself. It is not going terribly well, though. 'I'd do the same for any friend' becomes a lot less compelling when by and large you only have the one, much less when his mind decides to point out details like the fact that he doesn't think he has even contemplated willingly _cuddling_ with another being since his family died. Sex, alright, perhaps that, now and then with other soldiers he respected or a pretty and willing girl in a tavern. The fact that _those_ experiences were quite different from being with Aymeric are just a minor detail. As is the fact of _returning_ to the same partner again. It could still — still — 

He feels like his own mind is giving him a deadpan stare that only emphasizes what a delusional idiot he is being. Finally, unable to bear his own thoughts anymore, he gives Aymeric a small shove, gentler than he wants to pretend it is, explaining roughly, "I need to eat. Let us see what else they left us with." A few minutes examination leads to a filling, if unexciting, meal of bread and hard cheese and a few apples, along with cool water. Even Aymeric condescends to tolerate supplementing his bloody needs with an apple.

((-----))

Other, less fraught conversations are interrupted by the occasional doze with little to do but rest, although a good bell or two is happily wasted when Estinien remembers that he can take the time to properly clean and repair their armor. It is careful, physical work and he can bury himself in it, shut out all of his other thoughts in the repetitive actions and familiar routine. Contented when he can finally tuck all the pieces back away, the sound of a knock at the door draws both his body and Aymeric's tense. At least until a cheery voice carries through it. "My friends? I brought something warm before dawn, you know the kitchens always start up early, and no one is like to question me carrying off servings to my office as I'm afraid I have the terrible habit of eating there too often."

Aymeric moves to open the door, a warm smile of welcome on his lips that grates ever so minutely in the depths of Estinien's chest for a moment. Haurchefant bustles into the room, bright eyed and cheerful for someone where this is supposed to be the very start of their day. Then again, it is unfair to assume that _every_ noble-blooded bastard is as wedded to the comfort of their bed as his bondmate is. A bowl of porridge is proudly shoved into his hands, steaming and dressed with cream and syrup and his stomach _roars_ at the idea of fresh, hot, flavorful food.

He supposes Haurchefant is not so bad, at that. Settling on the overturned tub to use it as a seat while he eats, he observes the two bastards interacting, Haurchefant going through an explanation of the day and news from Ishgard, bright and bold and eyes almost entirely for Aymeric . "I do regret not being able to provide for you as easily, my friend, but I think the sudden appearance of bite marks at Camp Dragonhead would be a dead giveaway to anyone taking notes for the Holy See. So, unless you have an idea of any more discreet places you could bite me…" His voice trails off, smile turning briefly wicked.

Estinien damn near chokes on his porridge, which is just as well, as the alternative would have been the growl he had started to form before he was rudely interrupted by the need to not inhale food into his lungs. A flicker of warm red aether reaches out over the room, plays over his skin, and he wonders against that neither of them can see it, feel the artifact growing bright and eager with his flash of jealousy and resentment. The grip of power fades slightly when a hand is clapped against his back, delaying Aymeric's response, the cheerful voice of the camp's cheeky command soothing. "Now there, I was just teasing, I'm not going to steal your companion's attention from you."

Estinien decides he is going to strangle him. Just not until after his food is finished. There is a soft pressure against the bond and Aymeric moves closer, resting a hand on each of the dragoon's shoulders in further gentle restraint before he finally answers, polite and warm. "Lord Haurchefant. He has had a rough few days, I beg of you, do try and resist the urge to poke fun. Your solution is quite enough to get me by until Estinien is recovered. So as curious as you may be about the chance to sample vampiric powers, I myself prefer to not have to use them." Grudgingly, the dragoon admits it was an elegantly performed deferral. More of him than he cares to admit still wants to strangle the man, though, just a little, especially when he catches bright blue eyes lingering on both of them with clear curiosity.

Whatever they are, it is none of _his_ business, and Estinien tries to convey it via glaring. Unfortunately, doing that only seems to make Haurchefant smile more. The man is _infuriating_ sometimes, like a very stupid, very energetic puppy. When he finally makes regretful apologies and slips off to his duties, it is not soon enough, even if he had brought a proper meal.

Scraping a hand back through his hair, grateful that it's now properly unbound and moving as it should again, Estinien sneaks a small look towards Aymeric through his lashes as he declares flatly, "Must be about dawn, or past, then. I'm going to try and sleep, keep from getting too offset, since I assume we're going to try and travel at night when we leave."

He doesn't really need the nod of acknowledgement, but it soothes him a little as he strips down enough for proper sleep. That the vampire will follow his lead is all but a given conclusion; both in that as noted, there is precious little else to do and also that he has rarely shown any ability to avoid the opportunity to be physically close. Perhaps it's a sop to the hopeless argument he's had with himself, but especially after Haurchefant's visit, there's a smug satisfaction in being the one resting with Aymeric at his back, with elegant fingers idly carding through his cleaned hair as he starts to drift into sleep. For a second, lips press warm to the back of his neck, not as a prelude to a bite but in a simple expression of quiet affection that eases his tension further.

  
Curse him to the seven hells, he _is_ lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual highlights!  
> * Authors love comments. And readers. ♥  
> * You know the drill: Like to read, write, or otherwise engage with FFXIV fanworks? Come join us at [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) to find a vast mob of the same sorts of folks.  
> * As you MAY HAVE GATHERED, Aymeric/Estinien is kinda my _thing_ and if it's yours too, swing by Twitter to check out https://twitter.com/estimericweek1/status/1283298064166457344 where there's plans for a whole week of my favorite sort of content.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the overly long wait, although it was for a very good cause. ♥

The echo of a knock at the door draws awareness back, and Estinien groans, rolling away from Aymeric's side enough to grope for his abandoned shirt in the dim glow from the lowered oil lamps. Perhaps he did not _have_ to take it off to go to bed but it is possible he simply enjoys sleeping with his skin against Aymeric's. Not that he would ever _admit_ as much to anyone. True to form since transformation, Aymeric seems to have slept through that first knock and the dragon-blooded shakes his head in faint disapproval. Voice pitched soft, he calls out, "Just a moment!" Wandering fingers finally encounter fabric and he hauls the garment on overhead, shuffling to the door barefooted.

Opening it, he finds Haurchefant again, and he's briefly remembering his consideration of the worth of decking the man when he realizes the Fortemps knight is holding a tray with a familiar glass flask and, rather more importantly, two plates of — Oh, by the _Twelve_ , roast mutton and potatoes in gravy, with more sautéed vegetables on the side. "... Well, I was going to say rude things about waking up men recovering from injury, but I think I am going to have to forgive you."

"You know, I'm beginning to think your reputation as fearsome and grumpy is only because no one ever thought to feed you." Haurchefant suggests brightly, peeking past Estinien's shoulder and into the room. Estinien follows his gaze, spotting Aymeric still half-shrouded in the blankets as he sits, white gold skin shining in the dim light, one hand scrubbing at his eyes. The urge to move to the side and place his body between the man's eyes and his knight is strong — and rather embarrassing, now that he better understands the reason behind his desire to do so.

Instead, he suddenly tenses again as he notices the open appreciation in Haurchefant's eyes as Aymeric reaches for his own shirt, pulling it on smoothly. Having him at least fully covered, it not properly dressed, is a small improvement, but the reality of having someone else here, ogling Aymeric's sleep-mussed hair falling into his face in loose curls, feels like a subtle acid etching along his bones, a constant low grade burn and dissatisfaction as he has to suppress rudeness or possessiveness. After a second or two, he makes a rough sound, and grabs one of the plates from Haurchefant's tray. "It takes more than food, so st— " Cutting himself off, knowing it will not be acceptable to say what he wants to, Estinien swallows hard. "Stay a moment and tell us what it looks like up there."

"We did have a little formal visit from the city today." Haurchefant warns, and Estinien can see Aymeric tense, which is a bit irrational; the man would not be here, nor so upbeat if they had actually found or suspected something. He settles to sit on the floor and Estinien follows with his plate. Aymeric joins them shortly after and if the situation were less dire, it would almost be funny; three warriors sitting cross-legged on the ground in a bare chamber, two in sleepwear, like an overgrown set of boys sharing secrets. Before he continues, Haurchefant passes Aymeric the second plate.

Digging into the food, Estinien listens to the further explanation. "We all got asked a lot of questions, and they went through the barracks to quite an excessive degree. Irritated enough of the men doing it that half of them would be willing to lie about you being here or not even if they were not before. Not the smartest thing they could have done." Shaking his head, he pauses to pick up the flask of blood from the tray, idly swirling it in his hand so the liquid sloshes up the sides and drips back down. Both Estinien and Aymeric go utterly still, although for likely very different reasons — Estinien can _feel_ Aymeric's sudden surge of hunger through the bond, like a thorn-wreathed void, and a flick of his eyes take in the suddenly very predatory way his bondmate is watching the Fortemps knight's every move. Letting out his breath in a sharp hiss, Estinien lurches forward, snatching the flask from Haurchefant and shoving it firmly into Aymeric's hand.

"Lord Haurchefant." Estinien growls, deep exasperation in his voice now, "Do _not_ tempt the vampire, please. If he attacks you, I promise, neither of us will end up happy about it." Haurchefant actually _pouts_ and he cannot believe the _gall_ of the man, shameless in his curiosity and willingness to court danger. Feeling drawn like a bowstring, the dragon-blooded tries to glare down the knight, watching from the corners of his gaze as Aymeric drags in a ragged breath and quaffs the blood. As soon as he does, the gnawing edges of his hunger lessen, replaced with a familiar burn of shame and weight of self-loathing. 

He doesn't need words, to know that comes from having to be seen indulging his monstrous side in front of someone Aymeric considers a friend. Estinien wants, so dearly that not doing so actually causes pinpricks of pain to dance under his skin, to reach out to Aymeric, to touch him or reassure him in some way, but he is unsure of what is appropriate or what will betray more than he is comfortable. (As if _he_ even knows the answer to that!) Despite that, a moment later, he finds the vampire shifting nearer, not stopping until the length of his thigh is pressed lightly against Estinien's. Carefully, he lets out a slow breath, not wanting to show too obvious a response, although his gaze flickers up to Haurchefant. He means to be challenging, but the only thing in the young man's bright blue gaze is eager curiosity. 

"No harm meant; I assure you! I am merely curious, particularly given the current situation in my family. Plus, you were ever so evasive about my earlier question…" Haurchefant trails off invitingly, his lips curving wider into a trollish grin.

Aymeric makes a soft, weary noise and picks up his fork, idly using the side to cut off a piece of the roast. "The main 'discreet' spots are at the wrists — which would be seen almost as easily as the neck — and the inner thigh. I prefer not to not feed in a way that enhances the more interpersonal effects of the bite unless it is on my bonded. Since that is not you and you cannot allow a bite on your neck to be seen, please, my friend, let it go. I am not fond of reminders of my cursed nature and I suspect you are causing Estinien far more distress than he cares to admit." 

Haurchefant's expression flashes from teasing to mild guilt at Aymeric's explanation, then concern creases lines around his eyes and between his brows. "Forgive me. I must be blunt for a moment." His gaze flicks from Aymeric's face to Estinien's. "Ser Estinien. Your rather touchy temperament is not unknown, especially when prodded on personal issues. It would be better to start planning now for that to happen more. Two men, looking like you, who travel together and will not be split up? There are going to be assumptions made that you are lovers and— " quickly, he lifts a hand, as if to forestall an expected protest (which in truth, yes, Estinien was about to make), "I am not saying you must tell me if you are or not! I can guess. Yet away from Ishgard, it may be better for people to _assume_ that you are whether 'tis true or not, because you are not going to be well served telling people that one of you is a food source for the other."

The idea of being that _open_ about his feelings, much less what others will assume about his and Aymeric's _private interactions_ makes Estinien's guts writhe. Under the intense surge of embarrassment and defensive rage that rises in him, augmented by eager jolts of aether from the eye artifact, reaching out in response to every small surge of anger, the dragon-blooded hears his own voice of reason, pointing out the unfortunate truth in the words. Carefully, he draws in breaths, pushes the draconic aether away, even though it is strangely hard to do so, something about the way it coils around him in his frustration feeling familiar, comforting. Awareness fades back in and he realizes he has lost a few seconds of time in his distraction, missing most of Aymeric's response to Haurchefant's comments. Estinien realizes that the vampire might be aware of his brief distraction, a new tension of worry running through his body and reflecting in the wavering energy of the bond.

Their host's eyes are on him, measuring, and Estinien must look away for a breath before he meets that gaze again. "I will adapt to anything I need to, to keep Aymeric safe, wherever we end up." That much, at least, he is sure of; many things have changed in his world but that, at least, is a constant he has been able to hold himself to since his bonding; his duty now is to Aymeric, both professionally and personally. Aymeric is _his_ , and he is _Aymeric's_. He can, and will, defend that fact onto his last breath and drop of blood. Carefully, he holds Haurchefant's gaze, keeping his expression steady and certain, until he receives a small nod of assent. Aymeric's hand brushes over his knee, the touch fleeting, but reflecting a silent appreciation, probably both for the words and what they represented.

"I suppose you will, then." Haurchefant shifts, leaning back on his hands and considering the pair of them thoughtfully. "The Skywatchers are saying light snow tomorrow, with wind and fog. It will not be pleasant to travel in, but it will do a lot to conceal your movements. Do you think you'll be recovered enough to try for the borders of the Twelveswood the next evening?'

Aymeric turns his head to meet Estinien's gaze, catching eyes with his, giving the slightest lift of his eyebrows as he does so. It is enough to make the question clear, between them, and the dragon-blooded gives a brief lower and lift of his chin, indicating his willingness. Aymeric then turns his attention back to Haurchefant between bites of food. "Yes. Your healer did good work, and we have been able to get a good bit of rest. I do not want to put you at any more risk than we need to, so we will be ready to make for Gridania." 

((-----))

After Haurchefant leaves them for his own rest, Estinien takes it as an excuse to dig through his bags and change into proper attire, never mind that no one else is like to see them tonight. Aymeric does that same and there is a small spike of amusement that shoots through him at seeing that, apparently, Aymeric's idea of 'simple' still only goes so far; all the clothing may not be ornate, but it is clearly well made. Pulling his hair free of his collar and feeling it fall back into place, he sneaks another curious sidelong look at the other man. "If you know all these alternatives for feeding, have you, ah, made use of them?"

The vampire goes still in the process of doing up his last buttons, a heartbeat or two spent in silence, then, softly, "I have fed from wrists before. It is generally less convenient for the one being fed from, because they move so often and brush against things." He finishes fastening his shirt and turns his head to look to Estinien, finally letting out an exceptionally soft sigh. "I have not… I have never fed using the other method."

If nothing else, the bond has made it a great deal easier these days to tell when Aymeric is attempting to avoid dishonesty by being evasive. Narrowing his eyes, Estinien traces the lines of the nobleman's face, all that finely hewn beauty and angelic angles, and a lead weight drops in his gut as more pieces fall into place. (This may be the actual worst part of being cooped up like this; his mind has far too much opportunity to _think_ and point out to him things he was trying terribly hard to _not_ be aware of.) Licking his lips minutely, the dragoon clarifies, gently, "You haven't fed that way, but you've either seen it in use or had it used on you."

"If we had spent more time in court than the bare minimum I was forced to, you would have seen it as well. Usually later at night, of course." Aymeric pauses a beat, then stepped back towards their packs, starting to lace them closed once more. His fingers are unusually clumsy and Estinien sighs and steps in, leaning ‘til the line of the vampire's back is pressed flat against his front, letting his mouth briefly graze at the nape of a neck. Some of the energy running through Aymeric seems to bleed off and when he tries again, he recreates the knot ablely. "I have been fed from, as you guessed. Not by choice." Carefully, the man turns within the circle of his arms, and in an answering reach pulls him close. "For your own sake, Estinien, it may be better not to think too much upon what happened in the time before I was changed. None of it was pleasant." 

Tightening his grip as a low growl rumbles somewhere in his chest, Estinien feels his own aether rise to meet that lingering from the Eye, the energies twisting together like his aching need to protect Aymeric and the sick, bilious feeling of knowing he could have been there and was not. Hesitant despite all that _feeling_ nearly overwhelming him, the way it twists and tries to erupt from his body like the water from a geyser, Estinien sucks in slow breaths, forehead pressing in to lean firmly against Aymeric's. He curls the rough grip of his fingers into the fabric of the other man's shirt, as if to prevent him from drawing away. (As if he _would_!) It does not matter that he already knows that what he is about to say will be refuted, refused; he could not bear not to say it. "I am so sorry. I wish I had not let you talk me into leaving. Maybe, if I had stayed in Ishgard, it would have been better."

"Or it may not." Aymeric counters, soft voiced, the sound almost as much a caress as the way he flattens a hand over the small of Estinien's back, fingertips flexing gently. He straightens and lifts his other hand, curling it along the curve of the dragon-blooded's jaw. "The past, as they have told us endlessly in chapel, is immutable. The present contains more than enough that I am glad of that. Besides…" When the distance is closed this time, it is not to press forehead to forehead, but mouth to mouth, letting his brush and linger against Estinien's 'til his breath speeds and his focus starts to draw from a wild roil to a shining line, bright and sharp. When he breaks the kiss, his voice is huskier, nearly a whisper, "It means when I can bite you again, I can see if you taste even richer there." 

For an instant, the world seems to swim, and Estinien tries to pretend it is not because nearly all his bloodflow appears to have suddenly chosen to reroute itself. Drawing in air, several gulps in a row, the dragoon considers the gleam of mischief in Aymeric's pale blue gaze, and the slight curl to his lips. "You are attempting to distract me away from certain topics." There is a low rumble of laughter before Aymeric kisses him again.

"I am willing to try, at least.' The vampire agrees, his thumb running slowly along Estinien's cheekbone. "After all, if you are willing to force yourself to bear the possible terrible stigma of being assumed my lover…" There is no question he means to call back to the earlier conversation with Haurchefant, to the warnings about what will be assumed. And yet, even with that being the impetus, his tone is still warm and teasing, not hurt at the idea that Estinien might be uncomfortable with a public — a public — a public _presumption of sentiments_. Sometimes, he is not sure if the man knows him too well or forgives him of too much.

Well. He can do something for the last, at least, a low grumble of words as he tilts his face towards that touch, catlike. "There is no stigma or shame to being assumed attached to you. I merely wish that matters of — of personal emotion — were private." Stepping in a little closer, Estinien tries to smooth the spots where he has been clutching at Aymeric's shirt. "It is difficult enough to admit my… _weak spots_ … to myself, but having to know others are aware? Yet as I said. If it helps to keep you safe, that — that is what matters most to me."

The smile clinging to Aymeric's lips like the icicles shining in the sun quirks wider, eyes warming with it as well. "Ah, so that is what I am, my dear one? Your weak spot?" The utter open affection threading through his tone is alluring and terrifying in almost equal measure; the vampire _knows_ him, and he is sure, with the same utter certainty that he has been with each recent revelation, that Aymeric is aware of exactly what Estinien really meant.

Pinning those pale blue eyes with his own nighttime gaze, he clarifies, fierce in his sincerity. "My greatest vulnerability and the source of my greatest strength." Locked still with his, Aymeric's eyes go wide. It was not said with the same words that another might use. He knows, all the same, and a flush of red glows across Estinien's cheek as it becomes too much at once and he must look away. Thank Halone for the noble being who he is, Aymeric does not follow up with comment or teasing. Instead, he just continues to hold onto Estinien, silent and close. 

Minutes pass, then Aymeric gently nudges him and they settle back onto their temporary bed. As if the conversation had never diverged into more personal matters, infinitely compassionate and knowledgeable of him as he is, Aymeric begins making idle inquiries about Estinien's knowledge of the Twelveswood, the changes in the weather, other topics not meaningless but without the weight. Keeping his mind busy on plans, instead of internal fretting or worries. By the time they are wearied enough to rest and the sun must be rising, he feels calm and contained again, contented to sleep one last day below the keep, curled with his bondmate at his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual highlights!  
> * Authors love comments. And readers. ♥  
> * You know the drill: Like to read, write, or otherwise engage with FFXIV fanworks? Come join us at [Emet-Selch's Book Club](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN) to find a vast mob of the same sorts of folks.  
> 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! Hopefully, despite doing FFXIVwrites and going back to work full time, I can go back to a biweekly update schedule from here.
> 
> For now, enjoy. Last part of the chapter is NSFW.

The barest flickering halo of the oil lamp illuminates — or fails to really illuminate — their hiding place, although Estinien imagines that outside, the afternoon or evening sun still hangs casting fiery brilliance through the sky. He will not see it today, but tomorrow, with any luck, he and Aymeric will be in the outskirts of the Twelveswood or further before it rises. Predictably, the other man is still deeply asleep, and with no one else around to be aware of his display, Estinien allows himself to indulge. He traces fingertips, light as the caress of the first stirring breeze, over raven-dark curls, along the upper line of a long, elegant ear, and finally, still as gentle as he can be, running from temple to the tip of a pointed chin. Even here, shrouded in shadows and darkness, the man is too damned _beautiful_ to be real.

Embarrassed at his own sentimentality, Estinien pulls his hand back, telling himself he's only imagining his pang of regret at the last contact. The other man stirs, long enough to murmur an inquisitive, sleepy sigh, then he sinks back down into slumber, one outstretched hand falling into the warm hollow in the blankets left after the dragon blooded has started to depart the bed. Allowing himself to pretend obliviousness at the slight smile tugging at his lips, Estinien heads for their packs, raising the level on the oil lamp just a little to be able to better see.

A bit of careful sorting and repacking, and he has found something suitable to wear under his mail for travel, for himself, and something with more layers for Aymeric. Not that he is going to admit out loud that he is worried about how _chilled_ he got traveling here, especially when they're heading away from the cold, but there's no harm in taking precautions. After changing, he takes a moment to pull his hair up into a high tail, like he used to wear in his soldiering days. 

When he looks back to their bedrolls, Aymeric is watching him through eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep. When the vampire realizes he has been caught, he smiles, still soft in his not fully awake state. Estinien scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. "You know, Borel, you could announce you're awake instead of just staring. Get over here and get dressed before that damned pervert of a camp commander shows up to make intimations about where he wants to find your teeth." Alright, Haurchefant is not actually that awful, but he's not going to miss the shameless _needling_ and the _knowing looks_. 

Aymeric no doubt knows as much too, by the fact that all he responds with is a sly quirk of a smile and a lazy uncoiling from the blankets. A few steps are all that is needed to take him across to the bags to retrieve the stack of clothes Estinien offers him, one dark winged brow raising for a moment at the size of it. "You get cold." The dragoon mutters, turning away and focusing his gaze on retying the laces holding the nearest pack closed. A soft laugh huffs out next to him and Aymeric brushes a hand along his arm before stepping away to get dressed as well. 

That task accomplished, wordless and moving in easy tandem, they fold and roll blankets and bedrolls, tying what will come with them to the packs. The work is accomplished in a few minutes and already, their temporary haven looks like nothing more than an empty storeroom once more, save for the oil lamp and the empty wooden tub. Estinien finds himself both relieved and slightly nauseated, longing for freedom and open air but strangely uncomfortable and nervous about leaving. He takes one last look around the room, worrying briefly at his lower lip with his teeth.

Aymeric settles to sit leaning against the wall to wait for their host's appearance and their hopeful departure. Estinien knows he ought to as well, but the nervous energy is winding up now and he starts to pace the small space, doing his best to wear a track with his feet into the stone floor. The other man shoots him a look that suggests he thinks the choice is foolish but knows better after all this time then to try and staunch it.

The time passes in sluggish slices and by the point when he hears booted feet in the hall outside, Estinien is damned near ready to bolt when the door is opened. He _does not_ , because he _knows better_ , but the nervous energy still bubbles and fizzes along his veins as the two Fortemps sons, named and bastard, step with, spilling in more light from the hallway. 

Aymeric rises to his feet in a single graceful unfolding, because of course he does, and Estinien retreats to his side like a falcon returning to the handler's gloved hand. Haurchefant is grinning, and even if that is his standard mien, it is reassuring, because if he seems so happy, the opportunity to leave is there. Sure enough, his cheerful voice seems to boom in the small space. "My friends! As expected, the weather is snowy, and visibility is terrible. Not usually a good thing, but in your particular case…" An expansive shrug emphasizes the words. "So long as you are careful. We have a pair of young chocobos marked for sale that have been saddled. You will move faster on bird-back, so please, accept them as a gift. For—" his gaze turns to Artoirel, who nods silent agreement, "Caring about our brother's sacrifice and attempting to protest it."

Aymeric murmurs polite protestations, although not a refusal, but guilt and regret twists through the bond and in the subtler lines of Aymeric's face, a blink a second too long, the hint of tension in the line of his jaw. Ignoring the rest of the conversation the way he often does, because frankly, it all boils down to pleasantries, Estinien starts to fasten on his armor, relaxing as the cool metal builds layers between him and the rest of the world. With the last piece in place, he finally turns back to the rest, only to find them staring at him, Artoirel patient, Aymeric fond, and Haurchefant amused.

The actual Fortemps heir offers a slight formal smile and passes him a still steaming hand pie. Possibly not the first time he has been offered it, judging by those looks, and Estinien grunts a gruff thanks before grabbing the food and tearing into it. Aymeric moves to pick up some of the packs and the other two follow, so the dragon-blooded does the same, juggling his meal from hand to hand as he settles bags on his shoulders to carry up. He does not need the warning to not draw too much attention and pauses a second to suck a bit of lingering grease from the fingers of his mail after finishing. (A gesture that, he notices, causes Aymeric to still for a bare moment as well, the light too dim to prove if he is blushing.)

The small party trudges out of the hidden cellars, through the Intercessory, and towards the stables. As promised, the air outside is shockingly biting, the light not far past sunset, but with no one wanting to linger outside but those on watch as the wind tosses slow falling snowflakes into a dizzying eddy. Even as they traverse the courtyard to the stable, the drifts already start to swallow their footprints.

The distinctive smell of chocobos and straw is almost a weight after the thinness of winter-chilled air, and Estinien sneezes twice before he can focus to meet their new rides. The birds are young and healthy gelded males, one with feathers too creamy for the ideal, the other a hair too russet, which explains why they were going to be sold instead of kept for breeding. While he is not the chocobofreak that Haurchefant is, Estinien is comfortable introducing himself to the paler bird before starting to fasten on the packs. Glancing back at the camp's commander, he gives in to a certain curiosity. "Do they have names already?"

Haurchefant grins and reaches over, scratching the bird's crown lightly. "Nope, since we knew they would end up moving on elsewhere. You have something in mind?'

Estinien opens his mouth to reply and is cut off by Aymeric's interjection, lips curled into a grin wide enough to reveal the pointed tips of fangs. "Moonlight." As was no doubt intended, his mind flashes back instantly to Aymeric, blood and alcohol on his breath, murmuring tipsy words as he strokes his hair. His eyes narrow, unable to let the… jibe? He is not sure what to call it… pass by without response.

"Then yours is Sunlight." Estinien declares firmly, startling another laugh from Aymeric. Slightly flushed at his recognition of Artoirel's bewildered look at the reasoning behind their humor, he ducks his head, finishing up with latching the packs to the saddle. He reaches for the pommel to swing himself up, then waits for Aymeric to do the same.

Anticipation is starting to build precarious towers of nerves, and he checks to be sure that his lance is firmly in place, nodding to the others. Guiding the chocobos out, they are soon surrounded by snow and thin air once more, heading for the southern gate. Aymeric's bird ranges ahead, high spirited and eager to be out and moving. A hand on the bridle stops his own for a moment and Estinien looks down, meeting Haurchefant's gaze, face more serious than he is used to seeing. The bastard considers him for a moment, then murmurs quietly, "Take care of him. He's been a good friend and he's still a good man."

Estinien hesitates for a moment, then gives a small nod of his head, acknowledging the request. "I am sure Aymeric will find a way to send word once we have settled somewhere. Uh." He looks off into the snowy skies, evasive. "Take care of yourself. And your brothers." After Haurchefant's hand falls away, he spurs his bird up to Aymeric's side. The two Fortemps brothers fall in near each other, and Artoirel nods his head solemnly. 

"Good luck and safe travels."

There is more to be said, perhaps, but now is not the time, because there is no time, and they have a safe harbor to flee for. Aymeric murmurs brief thanks, then they dig heels in and head off into the snowy night.

((-----))

The early stretches of their ride are quiet, as he would have predicted; any creature that lairs between Camp Dragonhead and the Observatorium has long since learned the risks of attacking any group that has an armored man on chocobo-back in it. They circle around the settlement, rather than passing through, angling towards the west, chasing the edge of the weather as best they can. Here too, things are largely calm, other than a young or stupid gobbue that they find blocking the roadway.

(Aymeric looks to him and then leans over to take Moonlight's reins; Estinien may have been in rest and recovery but taking out a _gobbue_ is easy and excellent practice to stretch his muscles. He is mounting up again a mere few minutes later, unaware of the fierce grin of satisfaction he bears at his body having both behaved as demanded and at finally having had the chance to _do something._ )

In the small, darkest hours of the night, they cross the border from Coerthas to the Shroud and the snow becomes sleet, soaking between the cracks of his mail and making the clothes beneath chilled and sodden. Estinien tries not to worry, given that he put Aymeric in enough layers that it hopefully will not reach all the way through, but it is a nagging concern at the back of his mind. Beyond that, the wildlife here is more used to merchants and civilians, and there are several occasions when they must needs pause to chase off or slay banemites and balloons, the fire elementals particularly aggressive. (Probably because they are offended at someone disturbing the dark hours when they rest.)

The sleet is just becoming a chilled rain when they reach Fallgourd Float, and the sky in the east has begun to warm with the dawning. The inn seems bewildered at someone having rode all night and just stopping now, but it doesn't stop them from renting out a room, Estinien speaking with the keeper in a low, gruff voice, making sure they have access to a bath and that no one will interrupt during the day hours. It is a risk, but there's no way to set up a safe camp in the poor weather, and at least he's marginally less remarkable than Aymeric would be if he'd not put his hood up. Hopefully, it makes for a passable refuge for a single night.

Birds stabled and packs shouldered, they trudge wearily to their temporary lodgings. They are all the way up on the third floor, the room's windows blessedly facing the west. Carefully, Estinien drags the curtains closed, overlapping them to shut away the morning light as best he can. With that accomplished, he turns to help Aymeric unload bags and start to strip down layers, frowning as he realizes the man is shivering visibly. "Dammit… When we get to Gridania, we need to get you a rainproof overcloak."

Even chilled, the vampire shoots him a look full of amusement as he finishes shucking his shirts, even the undershirt lightly damp. "You do know I am not one of your foolish karakul lambs, right?" He lifts one leg, starting to unlace boots.

Estinien flushes, clearing his throat. "Clearly you have not seen what your hair looks like first thing on waking up, then. I am going to run a hot bath. You need it." He starts to turn away, only for a hand to shoot out and wrap his wrist, holding him in place. Mildly startled, he looks back, only for his stomach to attempt to roll in his belly at the intense heat in Aymeric's eyes.

"Feeding will warm me up faster and I had nothing before we left. If I am to have to be discreet, we may as well practice now, yes?" The slow smile that accompanies the words is almost predatory and the notion of stepping away fades rapidly, with Aymeric's hands deftly undoing the clasps of his mail, gently brushing away water droplets before setting each piece aside. Estinien hurries to help, the loss of the covering metal revealing the patchwork of dry and seeping chill dampness in the underlying clothing. "You need to change as well. Once you have these off," the shorter man thumbs briefly at the fastening to his breeches, "Sit on the bed."

Feeling like a foolish schoolboy in his irrational anticipation, the dragon-blooded keeps his gaze low as he strips down layers, settling on the room's single sturdy bed once he is down to his smalls. It's probably not, but after a dungeon and then nights on piles of furs and blankets in a storeroom, the mattress feels like an impossible luxury as he leans back on his hands, feeling them sink into the give. While he was changing, Aymeric has ducked into the restroom and grabbed a towel, coming over to his side and reaching to start to dab water out of his gathered hair.

That narrowed waist and muscular belly so near his face is a temptation that instinct, at least, cannot resist, and Estinien leans in, pressing a quiet kiss below the line of ribs, over one of the old scars that bisect all that white gold skin. For a second, Aymeric stills, the sound of his breath catching both distant and seeming to be the most immediate thing in the entire world. Then in a blur of movement, the vampire's hands bury in his hair, tilting his face up, and Aymeric is kissing him, with all the wild desperation he must have suppressed while they were in hiding, a roaring hunger finally slipping its leash. The pressure is almost bruising, lips mashed to teeth before a tongue forces its way into his mouth, as if trying to devour him in every way at once.

Shivering from things entirely other than the earlier cold, here in the warm inn room, Estinien wraps hands around Aymeric's bared waist, pulling the vampire to stand between his spread knees. When the kiss breaks, they're both panting, and if someone had told him a few moons ago how eager he would be at the idea of being _bitten_ and _fed upon_ and _possessed_ , he would have assumed they had gone mad. They would have been right, though, as it seems like all the heat left in him pools at the base of his groin, the press of fabric against growing stiffness a constant awareness as his bonded moves to press a trail of more kisses over his neck and chest, neglecting to leave marks for now. (He knows that is the sensible choice, but part of him, part of him misses the chance.)

Anticipation and the strain of restraint has made them both desperate and time and motions blur in a mess of warm and soft sensations, loving touches and demanding ones, until Aymeric is kneeling between his spread legs. Open-mouthed, sucking bites do not break the skin, but do leave the ghost of their claim now, a pattern of bruises leading to where his pulse thunders under the skin. Fingertips stroke over the hard muscles of his thigh, almost reverent as the vampire whispers softly, "If you think you are not well enough, tell me now, before I can resist no more."

Swallowing thickly, Estinien finds his voice as he buries his grip in dark hair, still chilled and damp at the front where rain snuck under the protective and concealing hood. "Don't resist." The smile that answers him is beatific, the purity of a saint in the body of a sinner as Aymeric bows his head, not in prayer, but to seal lips against sweat-salted skin, to allow the breech of needle-sharp teeth into the heat of a vein. The sensations all but explode over him, the vampire either unwilling or unable to restrain the effects of his power at this point, the thundering waves of pleasure and heat enough to make him gasp, curl himself to hunch over his bonded's form, panting as he grows so hard it _hurts_. Everything is electric and singing over his skin, every sense losing awareness of anything beyond the pair of them, the feel of Aymeric's aether freed and twining through his like they are tree and vine, no longer able to tell which supports the other. His toes curl, digging against the carpet covering the floor, rucking up the edges of it at the strain. 

He's familiar enough with the bite by now that even through the hazed thinking, when Aymeric lifts his head, tongue lapping teeth and lips clean, then chasing down the last escaping drop or two over bare skin, he knows it's less than he usually takes. Breathless, struggling for focus, Estinien gives a weak tug to the raven-dark hair between his fingers, voice fretful. "Is that enough for you?" 

A low, rich laugh answers him, full of affection, and the fingers that stroked his skin earlier rise higher, toying absently with the lower hem of his smalls. "I will not over tax you, my lovely protector, so as not to interfere with your recovery. It will hold me for the night. Is there something more you wanted?" Iced blue eyes lift to meet his own through a night-hued tangle, smug and inviting, and those fingertips curl into his hem, tugging ever so gently and slowly downwards. 

It is questionable if he would have had the nerve to ask all unprompted, but knowing that Aymeric _wants_ him to, encourages him, is enough for him to be able to choke out a soft, more broken " _Please_ ," as he tugs again at that hair. Aymeric is quick to respond, encouraging him to lift his hips so he can peel away Estinien's smallclothes, baring his stiff prick. Some distant corner of his mind remembers that he _ought_ to be worrying about having sharp fangs so near to the most personal parts of him, but most of him is well past caring. Right now, all that matters is his _need_ , the desire to finally feel the reassurance and heat of Aymeric against him, undoing him, and even that hint of nervousness disappears in a blinding flash when lips first brush against the tip of him, warmed by feeding.

Estinien is not so proud that he cannot admit that he _whimpers_ , almost pleading, as a tongue drags slowly from his root to his tip, tracing a slow, curling path. As his touch had been once before, it is clear that Aymeric means to take his time in exploration and learning him, tracing every ilm and marking the response, coming back again and again to those spots that draw the greatest response. Estinien curls tighter, fearing he's going to actually pull hair out when finally, finally the vampire opens his mouth enough to take him within, sweltering warmth enclosing the head of his shaft. Soft suction and pressure, then as slowly, Aymeric starts to move his head, taking in more and drawing back again, the most minute trace of something hard and sharp just barely felt on the deeper presses.

The danger of it should make him want to pull away, but instead, it drives him to seek more, thrust up as he clings to Aymeric in desperation. No risk matters as much as that heat, as being _within_ and surrounded by the vampire does, not even aware until now just how much _longing_ had been building within him. The first instant he presses deep enough to feel the other man have to swallow hard almost undoes him already, and the dragon-blooded keens softly, knotting hands tighter on those strands. "P-please, I'm sorry, I'm so close, I _need_ , I—" The words are met with a soft shushing noise that sends air rustling around him, the soft vibration of lips, meant to soothe but only building the fever in him higher. Hands bracket his hips, fingertips digging into his flesh to hold him in place as Aymeric shifts, swallowing deeply, taking him into a shuddering clasp that all but demands his release, the pinprick edge of fangs just barely indenting near the base of him, enough that there's another wild, frantic wave of mingled pleasure.

Estinien has never been good at denying what would make Aymeric happy and when doing so means letting go of his own control and giving in to the peak that insists on coming, well, there's even less urge to do so. Releasing the grip of one hand, only to shove the side of it into his mouth, biting down hard to muffle his harsh cry of release, the dragon-blooded spills forth in waves of radiant pleasure, world awash in sensation and brilliance until it fades to nothing at all.

He comes back to awareness a second or two later, panting weakly, arms hanging heavy at his side as Aymeric hums a contented sound and slowly slides his mouth back and off of his cock, chasing down stray drips as he does so. When the man finally looks up, what fills his eyes is not heat, but soft adoration and pride, so accepting and blissfully happy that it spiderwebs cracks through him of brilliant steel in the want to protect and earn that, again and again. Exhausted and weakened, Estinien slowly slumps back to lie on the mattress, staring at the ceiling as he tries to reclaim his mind. A warm hand pats his thigh, fond and just as protective as he is. "I think, my dear, that it's better if I run the bath. Take a moment to recover yourself."

Estinien considers for a moment, but thoughts are still difficult, she finally, he waves his hand in acceptance. "So long as you join me in it and we sleep after. I find myself oddly exhausted." For a moment, a wry smile touches his lips, then he just closes his eyes as Aymeric chuckles, stroking his thigh one last time before he departs to draw the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, want to talk and hang out with other people who love FFXIV fic, whether it be writing it or reading it? Please stop by [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) and join us!
> 
> Please leave comments and feedback, I am a hungry author who thrives on encouragement. ;)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW content in the latter uh... I'd say half but it's a lie, more like 2/3rds of the chapter. What can I say, I'm so terribly weak for these two. :_;

As is his habit, Estinien wakes first, carefully disentangling himself from Aymeric’s sleeping form. Still a bit damp when he fell asleep, his hair has developed a rather exasperating crimped wave, but when a few swipes of a brush fail to fully break it apart, he shrugs and leaves it be. After a cautious glance past the curtains to determine the current waning height of the sun, he begins to pull out clothes for the day’s travel. Lighter weight, this time; despite how chill it was the night before, much of that was the rain and they only continue further south into the Shroud. So far as he is aware, Coerthas’s winter does not trail icy fingers so far south as Gridania itself.

Before he starts to change, he returns to the bed, sitting on the edge as he leans over, shaking Aymeric awake more gently than he cares to admit to. Then again, that was his way even as a young knight; he might pick and poke and taunt his friend, but all too often, he betrayed himself by being gentle in the little things. Or so he is coming to realize, at least. Once he receives a bleary mumble and a sleep-hazed kiss to the inside of his wrist, Estinien quickly steps away again, pretending a hint of heat does not linger on his face as he quickly dresses and repacks his bags.

Aymeric is a little slower and rather fancier looking than he expects for a hard night’s ride. When he lifts a brow in silent inquiry, the vampire smooths down his shirt, turning wrists over to fasten the cufflinks. “If we are to seek sanctuary, or even safe passage, it goes more smoothly if people can easily see that they are dealing with someone of means.” The corner of his lips curls up, wryer than a true smile, recognizing the fact but not appreciating it. “We should arrive before sunrise; the less work I have to do convincing anyone that we must speak with the Seedseers the better the likelihood to be safe by daybreak.”

Grunting an acknowledgement and at the reminder of their rather limited hours of ideal mobility, Estinien starts to shoulder the bags. “Then let us get going without delay.”

((-----))

Their bill is quickly settled and the dubiously named Moonlight and Sunlight retrieved from the stable. The distance from Fallgourd to Gridania itself is comparatively minimal after their long ride the night before. It is also well-traveled, meaning that there is no chance to work off any nervous energy on the local wildlife or bandits, who recognize very clearly two men they do not want to tangle with.

It is a good two bells still until dawn when they reach the city, once again ensuring the gifted chocobos are safely stabled before proceeding to the nearest gate. After pulling his hood back to bare his features and considering the two guards on duty, Aymeric steps forward to speak with the older one, waiting for a break in the foot traffic to do so. “Good Ser, if I may beg a moment of your time?”

The guard’s eyes turn to sweep over them, and even with features partially hidden by the mask, Estinien can see the moment he registers the quality of Aymeric’s clothing, and his demeanor subtly shifts, become more welcome and accommodating. The world worked in damn stupid ways, judging so much based on appearances alone. In short order the man nods, calling out to his comrade, then leading them off to the side. “Was there something you needed?”

To the dragoon’s surprise, Aymeric wastes no time and cuts directly to the heart of the matter. “My name is Aymeric de Borel. I am the son of Thordan VII, the Archbishop of Ishgard, and I wish to speak to the Elder Seedseer about the possibility of claiming sanctuary in Gridania.”

The guard stares, somewhere between startled and horrified. At mention of Thordan and Ishgard, his gaze locks onto first Aymeric’s mouth, then Estinien’s, as if expecting vampiric fangs so monstrous that they would overhang their lips. Idiot. Although clearly an idiot who is recognizing a problem better off kicked further up the chain of command. “Ah. Let me fetch a Captain to speak with you.”

Aymeric inclines his head graciously and the guard takes off at a run. They wait, standing politely off to the side, bags heavy on their shoulders, and Estinien doing his best not to stare murderously at every person who dares to let their gaze linger overlong on Aymeric. Perhaps they are admiring, but after that all too clear admission, he cannot be sure, and if it is anything else, he _will_ be ready.

Judging the passage of time has never been his greatest skill, but Estinien hazards it is close to half a bell before the guard returns, looking relieved to be accompanied by an armor-clad woman with deep blue hair in close cornrows. She gives a slight bow of greeting, polite but not warm. “Do you have some proof you are as you claim? Forgive my having to ask, but while your appearance aligns with our reports, I prefer caution before I will escort you to the Lotus Stand.”

To Estinien’s surprise, perhaps overused to being in Ishgard, where everyone knows Aymeric on sight, he is prepared for this request, one pale hand slipping into one of the pouches on his belt. What he pulls out is not money, but a heavy signet ring set with a sapphire. The vampire extends it to their questioner. Perhaps even more surprising, she takes but a moment to examine it and accept the crest, which says a great deal about how much Gridania has been paying attention to their northern neighbors.

“Thank you for being understanding. We will be heading past the aetheryte and into the older parts of the city, please stay close.”

Aymeric slips the ring back into his belt and smiles that smooth, toothless politician’s smile, as if his mind were as empty and still as the sky on a perfect day. It is a beautiful smile, to be sure, but not a true one, like the ones he prefers, the self-satisfied and clever smirk he gets when things go just his way, or the tooth-flashing, boyish brilliance he is prone to when joy surprises him. Less appropriate for this situation though, admittedly. Estinien is drawn from his straying thoughts when Aymeric speaks, with a flash of embarrassment when he realizes what he was doing. “I understand the need for precaution, of course. Lead on and we shall do our very best not to wander as wayward lambs.”

((-----))

Compared to the seats of power in Ishgard, the Lotus Stand is a surreal experience, appearing as much as a carefully curated glade as a place where the powers that direct an entire nation would meet with their peers and followers. Then again, the leader they are here to meet looks nothing like any woman in Ishgard either; the Elder Seedseer is downright _tiny_ , even with the sweep of antler-like crown (or are those horns?) and the high pile of shining blonde hair.

Despite that, she radiates a quiet confidence, utterly at home where she is and secure in her power. “Welcome to Gridania, Viscount Borel. I have arranged for a suite of rooms to be prepared for you for the next day, as it is my understanding that you will need to take shelter from the sun?”

Breathing out with the very slightest quaver that anyone further away than Estinien, pressed almost to his shoulder, can hear, Aymeric gives a slight nod of his head. “That was most considerate of you, Elder. My deepest thanks for your hospitality. I presume that you have been told that my companion and I are seeking a location where we can settle for a longer period of time.”

Kan-E-Senna's voice is soft, yet it is not with mercy or with apology, only pity, stark and empty. "You cannot stay in Gridania beyond the handful of days needed to arrange passage elsewhere. The elementals have made their will clear. Your kind are an abomination and they care not for how you may differ from the norm." Her expression softens, minutely, although she still leaves no room for argument. “We have heard of your attempts to gainsay your home’s more questionable policies and I understand what you are was likely not of your choosing, but their will is clear.”

Aymeric betrays almost nothing, a half-heartbeat too long of closed eyes, enough that an onlooker would recognize only disappointment. Estinien feels it through the bond, though, the words tearing into him, the sensation of free-fall as if he had been tossed in the Witchdrop. _Shame_ , hot enough to cook bones from the marrow out, the sickening lurch of self-hatred and regret.

In front of the padjals and guards, in front of numerous eyes seen and no doubt unseen, he remembers a warning and words, then takes a half-step closer, rests fingertips against Aymeric's back, soft and discreet but inarguable. In Ishgard, it would have been dismissed because of what they are. Here? Perhaps the assumptions will be as Haurchefant says, but as he swore, in the face of the vampire's diplomatically hidden misery, he loses the ability to care or be offended. Let them assume. (Never mind that they would be entirely _right_ in the assuming.)

The Seedseer’s gaze turns to him and he tenses, hand pressing a little more firmly. “I do not know what you bear with you, but there is something amongst your possessions that seethes with power and anger. Whatever it is, _that_ is also not welcome here.” He can only assume she means the draconic relics and he’ll be damned if he gives up the additional power he might need to keep himself, or more importantly, his bonded safe.

Voice a low growl, Estinien lets his gaze lock with the small woman. “I go where he goes. If he is not welcome, I and any of my possessions you disapprove of will depart when he does.” There is a slight hiss of shock from Aymeric beside him drawing in breath in a rush.

Quickly, the noble steps in to cover for his bluntness. “I understand that you must be bound by their decrees and bear you no ill will for the necessity. That you are still willing to put us up until we can decide on our next destination is more than kind.” He bows deeply, every movement smoothly elegant and practiced. “If you do not have any advice on that matter, may I request directions to our lodgings? It has been a hard night of travel.”

A flicker of true compassion now and the dragon-blooded only wonders what might have inspired it. “In fact, I would suggest that you consider Limsa Lominsa. In addition to suspicions that the environment might be more friendly to your environmental needs, Ul’dah is still dealing with a significant influx of refugees. I think that it would be much harder there to establish yourself.” Kan-e-Senna waves to the woman who walked them in, “Please show our guests to the apartments in the Lavender Beds? They will have a set of rooms ready.”

After that, it is all bows and polite and empty words of parting, and the strange stinging sensation that if he did not think it would reveal overmuch the man’s distress he is trying to hide, he would be taking Aymeric’s hand in his, no matter where they are.

((-----))

The rooms they are given are clearly meant for visiting dignitaries, too well furnished yet soulless to be anything else. Some clever or desperate individual has adapted it to their temporary needs by hauling a wardrobe in front of each of the windows. (Estinien makes a mental note to be _extremely_ patient with any members of the staff he encounters.) Despite the restrained luxury, the feel is very different from Borel Manor, which is mostly cool blues and stone and gold; the rooms here are warm wood, rich greens, plush carpets.

After stashing their packs in one of the wardrobes, Estinien returns to his companion’s side, the vampire having not bothered to move far beyond the entryway yet, his mask of diplomatic calm having fallen away in the private space. Carefully, the dragoon reaches to take the vampire’s hand, squeezing it lightly within his own. “She did not have to say it that way.”

Aymeric's grief through the bond aches like a debrided wound, the pain now less in the initial injuring than scraped raw and exposed in the process of healing. While in Ishgard he was bitter with himself, most people he interacted with were accepting so long as he did not behave monstrously. It is entirely possible that he was prey to more jibes about his nature at Estinien's own hands than he heard cumulatively from others in the past year. In some small way, it has helped protect him, fragile in his new nature. Now, to come up instead against pity at best and the clear potential of outright scorn, is the scrape of a blade cleaning away the concealing dirt over the wound.

“Nay, she merely spoke what is true, and I confess it was a worry of mine before we came here, based on what I had seen in my studies. There is no lie to it; I _am_ an abomination, an unholy, corrupted thing, and I can hold no fault in their desire to have no part of that.” Aymeric’s voice is steady but rings hollow, at least to the ears of one who knows him well.

Growling, Estinien tightens the grip of his hand, tugging to encourage the vampire to stand face to face with him. “You are _not_ an abomination!” Aware of the slight tremor in his own voice, he swallows, the memory of Aymeric’s admission of despair in his months alone lancing through his core. Steadying himself and tightening his jaw, he leans forward, forehead pressed to the other man’s as he speaks. “I know you better than anyone, I would say. No matter what some pisspot elementals think, you are — are everything —”

Estinien begins to realize he has well and truly lost track of the train of his thoughts even before the endless bright sky of Aymeric’s eyes pierces into his gaze. A slight smile breaks through the mask of misery, wry and fond.

Biting off a curse, Estinien sighs. “You know I have always been more eloquent with my body then my words.” So instead of trying to find a way to explain what he feels, he lunges to close the bare ilm between them, press mouth to mouth, firm and as uncompromising as the damned elemental-addled woman’s words had been. Fingers knotting tightly into the other man’s, he waits until he feels one of Aymeric’s hands slip into his hair, curling to cup the back of his skull and pull him in nearer, and only then does he allow the kiss to grow deeper, gentler.

Time passes until they must part, breathing both a touch uneven. Aymeric’s tongue touches his lips, then he asks, “The bed? If we are to have safety and privacy for the day at least…” His voice trails off, eyes flickering towards their packs, and a flurry of dragonet wings beat against Estinien’s spine. “If you would have me again, my heart?”

Swallowing thickly, it is all he can do to nod his agreement, stepping back so he can start to pull and tug at his clothes and Aymeric’s, more eager than he cares to admit to get them both bare. As if Aymeric has not already well learned that it takes very little coaxing to draw forth his desire for him. Instead, the noble murmurs a soothing sound, reaching to help unfasten and unfurl with a calmer touch. For a moment, fingers touch the decorated golden band at one of the dragoon’s wrists. “On second thought… leave those on.”

Clothing abandoned and cock already partially hard, Aymeric lopes across the floor to dig in their packs. Because of _course_ he had the foresight to pack something for this sort of scenario. Feeling strangely more exposed with the gold glinting at wrists and ankles and neck, Estinien perches on the edge of the large bed, watching. He cannot claim that the simple pleasure of watching the lines of powerful muscles and scarred skin leaves him unaffected, his own arousal a steadily increasing tightness.

Dropping the glass vial up by the pillows until it is needed, Aymeric stands over Estinien, gaze sweeping him appreciatively for a long moment. Hands cup the dragoon’s face, thumbs caressing over the sharp edge of cheekbones before fingers slide deeper, burying themselves in the frothing fall of silver hair and tilting Estinien’s head back so the vampire can lean down to kiss him.

Not a delicate kiss or a soft one, but one with an edge of desperate hunger, not for blood or sex so much as reassurance and using the latter as the means to gain it. A soft moan slips from his mouth into Aymeric’s, drawing forth a low rumble of pleasure even as he reaches to wrap arms around the vampire’s waist, pulling him closer, dragging blunt nails over bared skin to mark him in return with dulled red lines. A tremor runs through the noble’s figure, so Estinien marks him further.

Pushing him back a little, Aymeric turns his attention first to Estinien’s ear, nibbling and sucking along the edge, nose bumping against the dangling crystal from the ear cuff and making it sway with the slightest tugging sensation. He huffs out a warm breath, pressing a kiss against tanned skin, then another, trailing them down now, over the strong lines of a jaw, against the beat of his pulse. He can feel the slightest strain to the vampire’s touch there, resisting the urge to bite or at the least mark, still too mindful of where they currently reside.

Estinien has to bite down firmly on his lower lip to muffle the pathetic noise he wants to make when Aymeric’s lips tease along where the collar lies against his skin, accentuated by little kittenish flicks of his tongue. Even if he tries to keep himself from being heard, there is no doubt his partner is aware, given the brief rumble of approval followed by the vampire’s teasing voice. “I told you before, love, you are allowed to be eager for me.”

Flushed, the dragoon looks away, unable to articulate the difference between being merely _eager_ for Aymeric’s touch and having been able to feel his cock starting to leak at the touch reminding him of the sensation of being _possessed_ , of being owned and claimed. It would be easy if he could just blame it on the bond, but the innermost core of him is too honest to cast aspersions on his partner that way. The seed of this wanting has been in him a very long time, for all he tried hard to ignore it.

Aymeric’s hand traces along his side, pausing at the smooth, too tight scar of an imperfect handprint over his ribs, where the healer could not remove Charibert’s mark completely. Shadows cloud pale blue skies as the vampiric knight’s hand spreads, falling to cover it completely for a long moment, the power of storms and squalls darkening his features. Cautious, careful, aware of the other’s fragile mood, Estinien lays his hand atop Aymeric’s, smoothing over it, then gently interweaves their fingers, pulling him onward.

Aymeric breathes out a shaking breath, then relaxes, and the dragon-blooded slips his hand back, lets himself dare to exult in the simple pleasure of tracing the strong muscles in the vampire’s arms, feeling the raw force and discipline of him. Despite all that, the noble’s touch is gentle as fingertips stroke along his chest, brushing over his nipples, pinching at them just enough to draw each to a small, hard point. The earlier clouds in his eyes clear away, a return to the eternal, immaculate pale morning blue.

“I know you will scoff at my saying it—” And yes, perhaps Estinien is already making the little dismissive chuff in his throat, as Aymeric smiles and rolls his thumb slowly against one hardened nipple, “But you remain utterly beautiful in my eyes.” A soft kiss pressed into the well of Estinien’s collarbones, then another to his lips, as the vampire’s hand glides down lower, teasing nails over abdominals, at the narrowing lines of his hipbones, finally laying his palm flat against the wiry curls at the base of the dragoon’s shaft, thumb stroking slowly at the base.

Breath coming out in a shaky rush, the desire to roll his hips upwards towards to even that bare touch, animal and needing, draws Estinien to bury his face in the curve of Aymeric’s neck, mouthing kisses over the line where it spreads into broadl shoulders. His voice is roughened by desire, emotions and sensations singing a noisy cacophony that pushes him helplessly towards honesty, “No one is as beautiful as you are, Borel, you idiot.”

A low laugh and a hand encircles him loosely, tugs gently back at foreskin to full expose the head of his cock, teasing across the seeping tip in slow circles. “Such a rude mouth sometimes, love.” The hand withdraws and a pang of loss sweeps through him, even as Aymeric gently but firmly presses against shoulders. “Lie back against the pillows.”

The order, gentle as it is, is a relief, releasing him from the burden of having to think about anything other than the sensations of his body and his desire for Aymeric. Shifting limbs in what ought to be an embarrassing scramble to get in place, he sets his back to pillows and headboard, legs falling open as much by instinct as intent. For all that he maintains a mien of outward composure, the speed at which Aymeric comes to rest amid that sprawl, set lips to his even as his hand reaches for the glass vial and fumbling the cork free, betrays a great deal of desperation.

A moment later and slickened fingers dip beneath his legs and behind, find the tight furled hole of his opening and start to tease slow, adoring circles against it. Aymeric’s tongue slips into his mouth and he moans in offering, trying to remind his body to stay relaxed. The first breech of a fingertip into him and he grabs at the vampire, claws more lines over Aymeric’s back. It’s quite possible anyone who sees him shirtless for some time will think he tangled with a wild animal, and he cannot care, finds reassurance in the rough drag of nails urging that touch deeper, a sound as much mewl as groan as the comparatively gentle touch works him open.

The vampire is almost impossibly patient, making him wait through a slow build of caresses, working in two fingers, curling them deep, hooking to massage slowly against his prostate. The sensation undoes him further and soon he has to give up on the kiss for fear he will bite or nip in instinctive response, muffling heated pants in the flexed muscle of a shoulder. When a third digit finally joins the rest, he bites down, lightly tenting skin around his teeth as he keens desire.

Aymeric loses hold of his patience and that hand withdraws, leaving him feeling shockingly empty as the noble spills more oil onto his fingers, draws them to slick his own shaft. A head turns, sharp teeth just barely grazing his ear amidst fluttering kisses even as his hips are pulled in and up, carefully aligned. A barest moment’s pause with the vampire’s cockhead just resting against his opening, then driving inwards, a long, slow, steady movement, relentless and aching in gentle burn that makes him cry out against the bite he still holds.

Another moment and he loses the grip as Aymeric pulls one of Estinien’s legs up to hook over his arm, then the second, bending him almost double as he nudges the dragoon to lie back against the pillows, still pressed home deep within, giving him time to adjust. Pinned in place, he lifts his head, seeking, lips brushing lips before an icy gaze locks with his, electric and brilliant with the intensity of emotion. It traps him as effectively as the actual physical position, and Estinien lets out a shuddering breath, holding that look as his partner finally starts to move.

Slow drags and press at first, hot air rushing from both their lips at the friction and pressure, then as knees are pressed down more firmly towards Estinien’s shoulders, ragged, soft cries as well, as the tip of Aymeric’s hardness first brushes, then angles to work against his depths. Locked eyes to eyes, it is almost too impossibly much, no magic from the bite to soften his defenses, just body against body, sweat-sticky skin, flexing muscles, a gaze full of sheer adoration and a caged animal’s desperate need for safety and comfort. Every sound he makes seems to only drive it higher, hips rolling and snapping down to meet him, faster and harder every instant as if his bonded seeks to fully meld with him.

The physical sensations are daunting enough, with Aymeric slamming home into him, pressing hard again and again to that spot within, making lights dance in his gaze, but it's the sheer _emotion_ Estinien feels that makes him finally have to close his eyes, unable to process the swell of deep love that strikes him when he watches the other man above him. He does not realize the other effect it may have until, rhythm still steady, a rapidly chilling drop lands on his cheek and when he lifts lashes to investigate, the reality cracks him open like an eggshell tossed on the tides as he spies the tears swelling in the vampire's eyes. Almost frantic in his scrabble to do so, he reaches above, cupping the planes of Aymeric's face between his hands and pulls him down, hard, virtually dragging him into a searingly open-mouthed kiss.

A drag of a single fang over his bottom lip, enough to draw blood, and Estinien refuses to draw back, thrusting it into Aymeric's mouth with his tongue like an offering, the powers of bite and blood and bond now working in unison as he offers up his acceptance, pours every thought and sensation he can into their melding in counterpoint to the self-doubt the earlier rejection has unleashed. One hand skitters wildly over his torso, finds the still leaking jut of his own length, curls around it to tug and fist wildly in time with those movements within. The other flails a bit, then encountering the solid line of Aymeric’s arm, drags more claiming lines over it.

He means to last longer, he does, he swears he should be able to, but oh, _Fury_ , the combination of Aymeric’s cock driving into him, sending waves of pressure and ache and stretch, his own hand working the painfully hard curve of his own prick, the constant drip of slippery pre, the vast chasm he can feel of his bonded’s own _need_ for him, the desire, the possession, the faint reminder of the press of body-warmed metal at limbs and throat… Coherent thought, thought at all is impossible, other than in scattered fragments, joy and sorrow and regret, the wish to soften the world in what little way he can, sharing body and self freely. Another muffled groan and Aymeric pulls back, just enough to catch his eyes with his own, _ravenous_ , and something in him breaks.

With a ragged cry, his hips try their best to jerk up against the weight of Aymeric against him, hand working in erratic patterns as orgasm breaks over him like a squall, shaking with the force of it as his spend splatters both their chests. Making a sound that’s halfway between desperation and approval, the vampire’s lips cover his again, muffling the force of his panting cries even as a few more rapid snaps and a sudden push to bury fully mark his partner’s release, less dramatic, but judging by the way Aymeric’s eyes roll back, no less pleasurable.

For a bare instant, starting to slide back down to reality, he has the thought that it might be the silliest face he has ever seen the man make. Carefully dropping his grip on first one leg, then the other, Aymeric finally collapses down to lightly rest against his chest for a few moments, softening cock still giving the occasional twitch within him from over-stimulation. Estinien trembles a bit, one wearied arm rising to stroke over his partner’s hair, too raw and cracked to restrain the need to be tender in his touches. There is a little of that floating detachment he felt the first time, mind softening the edges of reality after too much sensation and emotion at once, and it is so much easier just to lie, boneless other than the feel of raven feather strands of hair tickling over his fingertips.

When Aymeric finally shifts to withdraw, he makes a little sound of protest that draws a soft laugh, solid arms gently guiding him out of the bed and towards the bathroom as well. Warm lips brush his cheek, soft in their touch. “I… thank you, my love. It helps to know I am still worthy to you, at least.” He holds onto one hand tightly, limiting movement a little as the noble once again cleans them both, then pulls him into the tub to soak and to lie against his chest.

Leaning to press cheek to cheek for a moment, simply savoring the closeness, Estinien gathers the threads of his mind enough to murmur tiredly, “Always. You will always be worthy to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, want to talk and hang out with other people who love FFXIV fic, whether it be writing it or reading it? Please stop by [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) and join us!
> 
> Want to bug me specifically? My various social media (including my tumblr and the rough versions of my FFXIVWrites, almost all related to this fic) can be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> While Estimeric week is over, their twitter account is still active collating art and the Discord server is a very lovely place to chatter with other Friends of Elf Husbands. Check out [this tweet](https://twitter.com/estimericweek1/status/1291529785592643585?s=20) for more information.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, a distraction! A... distraction with a cliffhanger, no less. I'm not sure if I should apologize or not!
> 
> Bonus thanks to Sparkling for giving me a second set of eyes on this one before posting. ♥

When the sun begins its final descent below the horizon, Estinien is drawn to awareness once more by the dimming light. Aymeric is not only tangled around like a clinging vine, but half-draped over him, head pillowed on his shoulder. After a few attempts to wriggle free only to draw grumpy protests from the still sleeping lord, Estinien accepts the inevitable and (after a brief delay wherein he runs fingers through Aymeric's sleep tousled hair) clasps a shoulder to shake him awake.

Despite weary grumbles, once Aymeric's eyes open, Estinien (carefully, he must admit) rolls him off and onto his back, following through with the impulse to then lean down and thoroughly kiss the noble the rest of the way awake without pausing to let thought get in his own way. Straightening his arms after so he is looking down at Aymeric’s face in the dim light, further veiled by the silver strands of his hair falling down around the other man, the dragoon rumbles, “You are probably going to argue with me about this, but I think I should go out alone to pick up supplies while you settle on our route.”

Aymeric goes immediately alert with suspicion, and Estinien reminds himself to not show how admiring he is of that keen gaze. “Why would I need to stay here and simply wait for you to return safely? We are both here, after all.”

“You are exceptionally recognizable, my lord.” The dragoon points out calmly, slowly drawing back and rearranging his long limbs til he is seated cross-legged on the mattress. Aymeric props himself up on elbows, listening intently. “The more people who see you, the more likely news is to go back to Ishgard. Furthermore, if you accompany me, I will be focused entire on your safety, drawing yet more attention.”

The vampire frowns and is almost visibly considering argument as Estinien lifts one pale brow. However, after a brief pause, he sighs and runs a hand back through his hair. “I concede to your reasoning. But if you are not back within two bells, or I think you need help, I will come find you.” Estinien grins and rolls himself out of bed, already compiling a list of supplies in his head.

((-----))

Perhaps Estinien should have expected that the wounds from the Seedseer’s words were still festering. The lengthy argument between Aymeric and himself in bed over what to wear for travel that lasts well past sunrise is a warning sign, but he was too caught up in quietly seething that he had lost. Perhaps it is true that dragoon’s armor would stand out just as much as an Ishgardian knight accompanied by a dragoon, yet he is far more worried for those that might come chasing, while Aymeric’s thoughts are all for the wildlife and more common risks to travelers.

Surely, he has faith in their ability to deal with rampaging deer or whatever wildlife the Gridanian and Thanalan wilderness can offer. He just has less faith about facing the Halonic Inquisition without his relics. Well, his armor; the thick gold bands scream money, but they are also reasonably hidden, so long as he wears long sleeves and a cloak. As such, his armor is strapped to the back of his chocobo wrapped in oiled cloth, so that at a quick glance it is merely more luggage, while Aymeric's is given the same treatment.

Strictly speaking, and surely for the first night, Aymeric is not _wrong_ ; between Gridania proper and Buscarron's Druthers the routes are well traveled and even at night there is little to disturb their ride. True to form, Aymeric coaxes the rather dubious tavern keep into renting them a room under the rafters for the day. Definitely not the same quality as the apartment in Gridania but a step up from a basement storeroom. Security enough for a feeding before settling down, even if once again, the vampire limits himself, concerned at the risks of drawing further anger from their elemental hosts.

Estinien wastes far too much of the second night of travel despairing at the fact that he has become someone who even notices and expects comfort. Aymeric (or perhaps his fondness for Aymeric) always did make him softer.

((-----))

Past nightfall the dark diminishes the oppressive weight of heat in Thanalan, so unfamiliar and uncomfortable, although the stones and dirt still radiate back warmth from being baked in the sun, still a few bells from properly cooled. The silvered touch of moonlight casts a land of daytime reds and oranges into deep purple and cool blues, the air softly aquiver with nocturnal insects and the occasional bird or animal call.

Estinien hates it. He was fine with proper Coerthan summers, but whatever this dry and itchy hellhole is, his main contentment is that they are only passing through on their way to the nearest harbor. First it was the awful swamps south of the Druthers, then a plethora of looming cliff faces and crannies that left him tense and exhausted at the constant expectation of attack that never came. They had just barely made it to Drybone as the sun rose. Thankfully, with the town being partially built into the walls of the small sunken valley, a windowless room for the day did not even raise questions among the money focused natives.

Aymeric has been quiet and subdued the entire journey, earlier doubts still lingering. Opportunities have been few enough to try and jar him from it and unfortunately, traveling in paired chocoboback is hardly conducive to conversation. Estinien hardly even notices the point when his worry slips from being focused on safety to his companion’s mindset, distracting him from the landscape. Through another short stretch of cliffs, they’re within a night’s journey of Ul’dah, even if that is not their destination, and in the back of his mind, he is sure it is as peaceful as the lands near Gridania.

An error in judgement made clear when an arrow whistles through the air towards them. Estinien throws himself aside, enough that it only scrapes his arm. Simultaneously, bandits — he assumes bandits, anyway — begin to boil forth from the surrounding rocks. Leaning low over Moonlight’s back, Estinien means to spur both birds into a flat out run when he is thwarted by one of the nearest men taking a club to Sunlight’s near leg. With an offended wark, the bird crumples, Aymeric flung from his back and rolling into the fall over the desert dirt like the trained rider he is. Far less gracefully, the dragoon grabs his spear and abandons his own seat to move to stand guard.

The knight is quick to regain his feet but then battle is met and they are able to do little but stand back to back and defend. Within a few jabs and thrusts, Estinien is sure there’s at least a half-dozen; within a few more, he hears an unknown voice in a familiar accent calling out, “Leave the dark haired one alive, if you can!” _Ishgardian._ Which makes the ‘bandits’ mercenaries.

“Ringleader. From home.” He grunts between dodging an axe swung at his head and wincing as doing so gives the man with the club a chance to slam into his side. Rapidly, Estinien shoves the bandit away with the butt of his spear, then stabs him, springing up a moment later to throw himself up and through the air towards the speaker.

Spy and Ishgardian he may be, but he is no dragon-blooded acting in defense of his consort. In a moment, the one calling orders is dispatched. Sadly, with the clamor and chaos of battle, no one seems to notice or care that the purse-strings have been cut. He can hear grunts and pants, feel Aymeric’s tension through their bond, but no worrisome pains. Spinning, a lash and a leap, another down.

But the mercenaries are myriad, and he fails to realize how close another has gotten ‘til a blade hilts deep in the muscles of his shoulder. It is enough of a shock to draw a brief howl of pain, then Estinien is hissing as he counters back with using the shaft of his spear like a staff. The man has two daggers and is far too close into him; it takes longer than he cares and several further blows opening heavier wounds before he can be dispatched. He pants heavily as the man falls, blood spraying in his wake.

His side goes burning hot and sharp, enough to make him double over, Estinien having to brace himself on his lance. With the pain it takes a few seconds to register that he has not been wounded. No, everything he is feeling is coming from _Aymeric_ and his head snaps up to find the noble.

To find him, frenzied, tearing the throat out of one of the remaining attackers.

Aymeric’s eyes are so levin-spark bright in the dark, Estinien swears he could track them across a thousand yalms, pinning him even through a spray of blood. The body falls and his own locks as the vampire stares at him, at the sodden vermillion ruins of his shirt, and a willpower that has claimed his own in fealty slams down to hold him.

Only one left and it is better not to detail it but to say he dies quickly and surely. Aymeric licks his lips clean, then scrubs the back of his arm over his face to remove as much blood as possible. Still unable to move, Estinien finds himself breathing harder, the impossible heat and hunger pressing into him a horrifying contrast to his own growing fear. He starts to reach, tapping into artifacts, expanding aether, even as the vampire reaches him, face too taut, eyes too wild, and laps a long trail of blood off of Estinien’s neck.

He can hear a very faint low growl, interrupted by a soft interjection as Aymeric drags lips again over flesh, mouthing over the vein beneath, fierce even in near silence. “ _Mine_.” Even with however much he must have taken from bandits — assassins — it seems impossible that this is not about to end in him being bitten.

Which is less of a problem then the fact that they need to be on a boat to Lominsa within a few days and not be running around showing off bite marks on their necks. Pushing harder against the grip on his mind and self as Aymeric’s far more physical grip pulls him closer to those fangs, nuzzling them against his throat, Estinien hisses. “ _Aymeric._ We need to get out of here.”

Aymeric pays him no mind. Teeth press to his neck, on the very edge of slipping in and Estinien _pulls_ and the Eye artifact opens and it is a split second too late. Lassitude and pleasure slam into him, and if the vampire was not holding him up, he would be reeling. For far too long, he forgets why he is holding all that power and aether, lost to nothing but the allure of Aymeric against him, of pleasure and closeness.

The now unfamiliar sensation of hot air stirring the hair at the back of his neck reminds Estinien of where they are and what just happened. Using the power of his relics he digs in and _shoves_ back at Aymeric’s will, gaining enough traction to push firmly with hands as well, even as he feels a wave of dizzying darkness waver at him. Too much, too fast, between the wounds and the bite, and in desperation he shoves again with aether and power, snarling at the same moment.

It is enough. The grip of command holding him snaps and Aymeric pulls back with a gasp, the pained heat of the bond fading. Then, as confusion is passed for understanding, the scar goes sick and heavy with guilt and horror, dragging on him so forcefully he staggers into Aymeric’s arms. The vampire is still breathing in ragged, wild gasps and he goes taut as if he does not know if he is going to pull Estinien closer or shove him away. There is a faint wet sound when one hand squeezes down on blood-drenched fabric and with a hiss, focus returns.

Aymeric’s focus, anyway. Estinien’s own is rather limited by the dark shadows chasing the edges of his vision. Too much blood loss, body not as recovered from his not so long-ago confinement as he had imagined it to be. Dimly, he is aware they are moving, Aymeric leaving him a moment to lean against a tall rock as he manages to catch Moonlight’s reins, then tie his own injured bird’s lead to the saddle and retrieve something from the bags.

He loses track of Aymeric for a while and the next thing he knows the vampire is against him again, hands tugging at his shirt. Weakly, he shoves back against it, mumbling hazily, “‘meric, not… here.”

A moment later, Estinien realizes he is being a fool when a low voice murmurs, carrying command in it, but much gentler than the iron grip earlier, “Yes, here. Hold still and let me bind your wounds enough for us to get to the next settlement.” Moving more through Aymeric’s will than his own, he lets the vampire strip him to the waist, quickly clean the worst of the mess away with the remnants of his ruined shirt, then lightly wrap more bandaging to sop up further seepage.

He is redressed, then boosted onto Moonlight’s back as Aymeric takes the bridle in hand, giving a last despairing look at the battlefield of broken forms left in their wake. He draws a hand down his face, scraping away emotion to a flat mask, and as Estinien’s awareness narrows to keeping himself conscious and clinging to the chocobo’s back, he begins to lead them down the road.

((-----))

Somewhere along the way, Estinien loses track of the world around him. He awakens briefly, much later, sticky with sweat, in an unfamiliar dark room trimmed in the Ul’dahn style. His wounds have been properly cleaned and treated now, obvious as he is once more shirtless, lying on a bed with slightly scratchy sheets.

A queasy symmetry: Aymeric sits beside him, hand stroking his hair as he slept. This time, the touch is not possessive and powerful, but hesitant, guilty, just barely skimming over the tangled river of silvered snow. For a few instants, Estinien focuses to turn slightly, reaching for his lord’s hand. For a split second as he reaches, he hesitates, remembering the fear, then he pushes past it, grasping weakly.

Aymeric curls to lean over him, trembling slightly, and as he feels darkness pull him back down, he rasps out weakly, “Jus’ need… little rest…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, want to talk and hang out with other people who love FFXIV fic, whether it be writing it or reading it? Please stop by [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) and join us!
> 
> Want to bug me specifically? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> If you are so kind to have read this and are up to it, authors thrive most entirely upon comments, a crumb is ever appreciated.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one had better be at least half-decent, because I tried to go to bed shortly after the second break in the text and SOME CANTANKEROUS DRAGOON kept me up all night until I gave in and stumbled to write the rest instead of sleeping. You owe me a good night's rest, Estinien Wyrmblood. >:|

When Estinien comes to again, Aymeric’s hand is still clasped in his. (In fact, the second one is as well, cradling his own scarred palm and fingers betwixt as if they were one of Halone’s holy relics.) He is not sure if the other man wakes or sleeps, until the dragoon draws in a harsh breath as awareness of his pain returns. Instantly, the vivid levin-bolt blue eyes snap open, grip tightening. “Estinien?”

Too thin, reedy, as if the voice has been whispering that word off and on hopefully for hours. He grunts softly in response, shifting a little and realizing his head is cushioned in Aymeric’s lap. The relief at his response rolls over him, palpable, and the vampire leans down just enough to brush lips along his forehead, light as a summer breeze. “I was able to acquire some potions, but I was unsure how much to give you to wake you… Let me get you the rest.”

For the sake of Aymeric’s shattered state, Estinien does his best to silence the outward rush of pained breath when the vampire slips away to get the potion and his head descends back to mattress from its comfortable pillowing. ‘Tis not for long, anyway, as almost before he registers his new position, the lord returns, one hand sliding into his hair to cup the back of his skull, lifting him enough that he can easily drink the potion pressed to his lips.

Unusually, the brew does not taste half-bad, if rather herbal, and that alone says a great deal. Potions that don’t taste like stuffing your mouth with grass and dirt are far from _cheap_ and he doubts that has changed near Ul’dah, which means Aymeric, in his panic, had made the typical noble assumption that most expensive must be best.

Well. He can live with that, honestly. Certainly, the pain starts to recede to far more bearable level, and as Aymeric presses the vial to his lips to ensure he swallows the last drops, Estinien reaches to pull it away after, struggling to sit up properly. “What in the seven hells happened?”

(He barely notices the vampire’s gentle hands supporting his movement, the way they go still like cold marble at the question.) Estinien absently touches curious fingertips to bandages over his shoulder and sides, no doubt covering the marks from the daggers that had torn into his flesh. Pressure on them is uncomfortable, but not agonizing, which reflects just how damn powerful that potion must have been.

It takes a second to realize Aymeric is still silent and he half-turns, catching a glimpse of the noble’s profile, turned away and hidden by the shadows in the dim candlelight. A moment later, the guilt hits like an anchor, as if the weight of his scar could pull him clear through the earth. Lightly licking his lips, Estinien tries to keep his frustration from his voice at the evasion, from shame or otherwise. “You feel terrible about it, I get that. Why?”

Hands are still stone against him and Estinien leans back into it, ever so slightly, and the wall crumbles. Aymeric draws in a breath, rasping rough in his throat, then says, “Because losing control was my own fault. You may refuse my blaming myself for enemies at our heels, but I may have been—“ a pause, barely heard, a politician scrabbling for a polite word, “More avoidant of properly feeding than was wise.”

Estinien is grateful for his long experience translating Aymeric’s honeyed words. “Despite my questioning you about it, you have not been taking enough blood.”

“Yes.” The word is quiet, fraught with emotion, and every line of the body beside him he can see is taut and miserable. “I was afraid, after your injuries and what Charibert did, that I would be too much, do too much. What did it matter if some small hunger lingered in me? Better that then to place more upon you.” Aymeric shifts, hands pulling away, elbows pressed close to his sides, forearms curled to chest and belly. “I did not realize in combat… Smelling their blood, hearing your pain, then—” A weak tremor. “I cannot find words for how _good_ your blood smelled, how much I _needed_ it, needed you, the instant it—” Cutting himself off, the vampire starts to push himself up off the bed, to withdraw.

In truth, it is more instinct than any clever thought or emotional insight that drives Estinien to grab the other man’s wrist, holding tightly to keep him from moving too far away. He cannot deny his own tension, but he is sure that letting Aymeric pull away will only hurt them both worse. “How well fed are you now?”

Hesitation, but no movement further away. Shame crawls under his skin like a thousand stinging insects, and Estinien shoves it away, grips tight to the muted power of draconic aether, still lightly linked to his artifacts. He waits a second, lifts a brow, and Aymeric lets out a soft breath again. “Quite. I could have gotten by from the bandits alone, were I in proper control of myself.”

He suspects Aymeric had not intended to feed from the bandits in the first place, but in the chaos of battle, many things can happen. Attempts to sort out his thoughts are interrupted when his stomach reminds him of his presence by growling audibly. Estinien grimaces, glancing around for a chronometer. “What is there by the way of food, and do I have to leave the room to find it?”

It is enough to break the cycle of self-destructive thought, he suspects, since the unpleasant sensations seeping through the bond soften to something far more bearable as Aymeric straightens. “I suspect a great deal of the local cuisine would not be to your taste, but I brought back a few things.”

((-----))

In short order, Estinien finds himself propped up against every pillow in the room. A large plate — more of a tray, really — sits in his lap, piled with a stack of various skewers of grilled meat. He gives Aymeric the blandest look he can manage, unable to resist a slight needling after recent events. “I suppose you cannot find the sort of broth your servants used to force onto me after you fed here.”

He regrets it when Aymeric’s hunched shoulders show the barb struck deeper than he had intended. Guilty, the dragoon looks down, focusing on tearing into the food roughly. Aymeric is silent a moment more, then sets a glass of water on the tray. “No. I looked.”

The admission sticks in his throat like a stinging nettle, a low discontent at the implied presumption of himself as some sort of invalid. He is no milk-sotted stripling and despite his wounds, had Aymeric’s own self-control not broken, his injuries would have been far less. Eyes narrowing, he tears another hunk of meat free with his teeth.

His extended silence seems to make Aymeric uncomfortable, the man popping up from his seat to fetch one item or another or pointlessly reorder their bags. When he has finally had his fill of the richly spiced food, he pushes the plate away. The vampire rushes to take it, setting it on the table in the room and kneeling at his bedside.

Estinien scowls at his dark-haired companion, fingers curling and digging into the fabric of his pants. “Did the room come with a bath? I would wash off the rest of this blood now that I am more healed.”

Sure enough, Aymeric scrambles to his feet. “I will go run—”

Still irritable at the implied helplessness, Estinien swings his feet off the bed, leveraging himself up carefully as he interrupts. “Nay. I am quite capable of running a bath and washing myself, _my lord_. You should be turning your thoughts to how you will find additional food options once we settle.”

There is the start of a protest and once more, he mercilessly quashes it. “No arguments. I hazard you and I both would prefer not to risk tearing my throat out.” The horrified silence is telling and lingers as he grabs a change of clothes from their packs and disappears into the washroom.

((-----))

He emerges, wet hair fanned across his shoulders by combing, water soaking into the thin fabric of his shirt. Estinien frowns to find Aymeric still seated on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched inwards, his head hanging listlessly. The heat and isolation of the tub has softened some of his ire, and the twinge of regret in his chest is enough to send him shuffling forward.

Alright, the tub and the fact he could do nothing in it but recall all the times Aymeric has forgiven him in the past, of errors both minor and monstrous.

Carefully, he sinks to kneel between the other man’s feet, waiting for the instant where his presence registers to Aymeric through the fog of his melancholy.

He rarely gives a thought to his own voice; it is not his chosen tool, and it could never compare to the one he measures it against in his mind. Still, for once, Estinien wishes it were not such a natural growl, low and rough, and he asks for the Fury to gentle it enough to make his point. “You scared me.”

The start of an apology. “I am so—” Once more, he cuts Aymeric off, this time by laying a gentle fingertip against the plush curve of lips.

“Scared me. Not scared me away.”

He takes a breath, watching Aymeric’s eyes glitter behind a starfield of unshed tears, and curses silently once again the fate that has left a man normally so certain of his goals and morals adrift, left to cling to one irritable and foolish dragoon as his only buoy. Slow, hesitant, he slides his hand up, curling it against the planes of the other man’s cheek, thumb caressing the line of his cheekbone.

Estinien swallows. “Do not let it happen again. But I swore my lance was yours now, my lord. Not Ishgard’s, not the Knights Dragoon, not even my revenge. I am _your_ weapon, your knight, your servant. I will not leave so easily."

The warmth of another hand curls around his, Aymeric turning his face a bit more into his palm, like a flower would turn to the sun. His voice is thinner than usual, cracked. “I would not that you stay only from obligation. Not just because I was born a noble, and you are a man trapped by duty.”

He can feel the frown creasing his own lips, a line drawn between his brow, as he tries to gather the threads behind Aymeric’s thoughts. A convergence, and the frown softens. “Fool. Do you think I care enough for titles to call you my lord only because it is polite?” Confusion floods the vampire’s gaze, and were the moment not so weighty, he might have laughed. “Politeness, beyond that necessary, has never been my driving force. I torment you for it sometimes, because it is good for you to have to remember what you are and how it has shaped you, but when I am not snarling like a cornered cur, I call you my lord because you are _mine_ , and because ‘tis an easier endearment to my tongue than the softer ones.”

The sense of hurt ebbs, although the confusion does not, entirely. Still, he would have torn himself open like this again just to hear that fractured, broken edge fading, even if he feels like he has already cracked his ribcage wide as Aymeric murmurs, “If you seek endearments, I had thought ‘my friend’ served you well for many years. At least that implies some attachment.”

There is naught left for it, and he, terrified in some ways more than he was by the fight, by the bleeding, by anything other than the shadow of Nidhogg descending on Ferndale, speaks with his hand trembling on Aymeric’s cheek. “Friend gives too little credit for what you are to me. To what I,” Oh, Fury, let it be his imagination that makes his voice quaver, not truth. “I feel for you.”

Hope sparks and struggles in Aymeric’s gaze. “What you feel is for a monster. All the more reason to hold yourself at bay.”

The determined self-pity is too much for his temper and Estinien snaps, mouth moving ahead of his awareness of what he is saying. “Nay, I will not. I love you, you foolish, addled, blood-drinking, stuffed-shirted _idiot_ , and I will call you my lord as much as I wish to keep from saying it!” In the wake, pale blue eyes stare at him, shell-shocked and disbelieving, and the realization of everything he has said hits.

Humiliated at his own weakness, Estinien is still trying to figure out how to take back words already spoken when Aymeric’s arms are thrown around his shoulders and he is bodily dragged forward, crushed into a tight embrace. The knight’s face is buried in his hair, voice shaking again, “I love you, Estinien Wyrmblood. Cantankerous, tormenting, foolish enough to stay… despite and for all of that.”

Slowly, hesitant, the dragoon lets himself relax into the embrace. Into Aymeric’s warmth. Fear fades. Humiliation fades. Most things fade, in truth, but the scent of sand and sweat and skin, the comfort of being held. Until, at last, his knees, ever a dragoon’s weak spot as they age, began to complain insidiously.

Reluctant, he pulls back, brushing an awkward, shy kiss over the tip of Aymeric’s nose as he straightens, unsure of what to do with himself in terms of casual affection. “Ah. Rest. We leave for Horizon tonight?”

Icy points of brilliant blue study him, measuring, then a soft nod in answer. “So long as you feel well when you wake. After that, ‘tis merely a matter of properly armoring against the risks of a daytime sea voyage.”

Estinien grimaces at that since that likely means being crammed below deck. Sighing, he gives a gentle shove to Aymeric’s shoulder. “Lie down, might as well try to sleep more.” Or at all, he suspects, in the vampire’s case.

Once he is stretched and shrouded in covers, despite the heat, Estinien pulls Aymeric to him, almost shy in his encouraging the nobleman to lie with a head on his healed shoulder, rather than pressed up against his back as they usually sleep. The position allows him to run fingers through raven’s wing strands, soothing his lord — his love — down into sleep before he allows himself to follow after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, want to talk and hang out with other people who love FFXIV fic, whether it be writing it or reading it? Please stop by [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) and join us!
> 
> Want to bug me specifically? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> If you are so kind to have read this and are up to it, authors thrive most entirely upon comments, a crumb is ever appreciated.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, a month between updates, but December was unusually busy. XD We're close to winding down this arc in either case, and the urge to keep going is fizzing!

Impressively, even given how long he had resisted sleep into the day, Aymeric stirs first. Estinien finds himself drifting towards awareness at the loss of that comforting warmth against him, the movement enough to remind him of his still tender and aching places. Groaning wearily, he shoves hands against the bed to force himself upright, blinking into clarity Aymeric’s sleep-disheveled form.

A curl sticks up defiantly at the top of his head, as if still lifted by an invisible finger, and the recognition makes a slight additional heat come to Estinien’s face. Clearing his throat, he nods to their packs, hopeful. “After our excitement earlier, tell me you intend for me to wear my mail tonight.” A small part of him chafes at asking, but he would have anyway, for old soldiers’ habits are hard to shake.

He can nearly see the scales trying to balance in Aymeric’s head in the brief pause before he answers, sculpted features tense with worry and regret. “Not the breastplate or pauldrons, they are still too recognizable. The rest, I leave to your best judgment.” Estinien frowns — he would still prefer fully armed — but he can see the reasoning, and it is, after all, better than refusing armor at all.

With a faint groan at the aching of his bones and muscles, Estinien hauls himself from the bed and over to their packs. Lightweight base, armor over his legs, his proper boots. The rest, regretfully, rewrapped in the oil cloth, and a lightweight leather gambeson over his tunic. Some protection, anyway. Roughly raking his hair into place with fingers, he turns to find Aymeric setting the food tray back onto the table, another small flask of pearlescent liquid lying next to it. Damned fussing nobleman, assuming he needs cosseted…

When he taps it with a fingertip, Aymeric catches his gaze, pale blue briefly like iron. “A minor one, but it should help with any pain during our ride. Take it, please, for my sake if not your own.” There is a slight pressure on him at the request, not enough to force it, but enough that Estinien can feel it. Even as he picks up the flask to down it, he draws a bit more on his artifacts, shoving his own boosted aether back against the vampire’s in silent rebuke.

Aymeric’s gaze goes wide and slightly guilty, and even the small resistance is enough to break the sense of compulsion. “My apologies. That was not intentional. I allowed my worry to have too strong a hold on me.” With a quiet huff of a breath that is, hopefully, forgiveness enough, Estinien drains the flask and replaces it on the table. Before stepping away to finish his own appearance, the vampire lays a gentle hand on his arm, as if trying to apologize further, and awkwardly, Estinien pats his more gnarled hand against Aymeric’s elegant digits, fingertips stroking the smooth skin.

Dressing to his preferences and packing takes enough time that Estinien can finish the remaining food, feeling at least passably fortified and ready for a long night’s riding. He has surely endured far worse, after all, than exhaustion and soreness.

((-----))

The lingering ghost of a young shepherd’s heart is well reassured when on entry to the stables Estinien finds Sunlight awake and alert, moving easily as he grooms his stablemate. Aymeric must notice his relief, because he pats the dragoon’s shoulder as he moves to start saddling the bird. “Easy enough to pay a chirugeon and say he bruised a leg tripping. Thankfully, it was minor and quickly handled.”

_And a chocobo with a bad leg is a boring, unremarkable sight, unlike an Ishgardian dragoon half-dead with blood loss_. Estinien’s mind fills in the thought, perhaps mildly uncharitable, but practical all the same. Annoyed at his own internal grumpiness, he attends to Moonlight, motions familiar and rote even in his tired state. Not enough that he is worried about riding, but he still feels it.

After he finishes strapping the packs into place, he recognizes the subtle warmth of Aymeric’s body heat as he steps in close. When Estinien turns, the vampire has an apologetic smile on his face as he offers his hand. “Allow me to assist you, please?” If he had ordered or simply offered, it would have been easy to refuse, but that _damned_ smile, soft and hopeful and guilty, makes him crack like ice in the spring. Sighing, the dragoon lays his hand in the lord’s, feels the reassuring press and grip as he uses Aymeric’s steadiness to help push himself up into the saddle.

Upon finding his seat, Moonlight lets out a warbling wark of eagerness and Estinien pats his neck soothingly before he leans, face red as he lays a brief kiss down into Aymeric’s hair, feeling as he might catch fire at even that much open affection dared. Assuredly, there is no one else in line of sight, but he can hear the soft shuffles of other birds, the sounds of handlers and riders moving about the larger space. Quickly straightening, he tries to hide behind the best mask he can construct, cursing for the thousandth time Aymeric’s cruelty in keeping his helm from him. At least he can draw up the hood of his travel cloak as the other man mounts Sunlight, feeling slightly more at peace in the partial concealment of shadows on his face.

Once they are en route, his attention stays on the fringes and every possible hiding space they go by, tensed and alert for another potential attack. Aymeric, on the other hand, seems to mostly be watching Estinien himself, a soft, even dreamy smile on his face. It makes his skin crawl. (It makes his cheeks redden at the scrutiny and his own heart disconcertingly prone to fluttering when he catches sight of that adoration.)

Even riding at night, by the time they hit Horizon the town has begun to wake and stir, early travelers hitting the road. Since their destination is yet further on, they do not pause, but head through the tunnel and onwards towards Vesper Bay. When the sky starts to lighten at the fringes like the color fading from an old shirt, Aymeric draws his hood up and far forward, lightweight gloves removed from pockets to shield his hands. It will draw a little attention, but plenty of adventurers favor a little anonymity and with Estinien dropping his own hood in contrast, suspicion is further lessened.

Almost there.

((-----))

The little port is definitely starting to bustle as they arrive, and Estinien splits off to buy a set of prepackaged travel meals from a merchant for the sea voyage. Aymeric goes to handle procuring tickets and, once again, he tries not to wince as the man pulls a gold ring out of his pocket and barters with the clerk. He knows their escape is digging into the man’s coffers, whatever he was able to leave Coerthas with. Then again, staying in Isghard would have been far worse for Aymeric’s soul.

A hyuran woman standing at one of the vendor’s stalls is staring at him as he returns with arms full of wrapped paper packages, her gaze curious and intense, and Estinien snarls back at her in warning, his eyes going cold and hard. She makes a startled sound and turns away, even as he hears a soft laugh behind him.

Aymeric’s voice chides gently, “A bit of an excessive response to your looks being admired.”

Estinien almost misses his next step glaring at the man beside him. “What? Do not be ridiculous. She was trying to get a better look at us, no doubt to sell the information later.”

A sidelong look back in return is paired with a gentle smile. “No, I think not. She was just enjoying your appearance.”

The idea is so ridiculous that Estinien simply snorts and ignores it. They lead their chocobos down towards the dock, side by side. Estinien finds himself uncomfortably aware of Aymeric’s hand, swinging so near his. Faintly humiliated at his craving, he looks out over the waves and attempts distraction. “How long ‘til the boat gets here?”

“Half a bell, I was told. I purchased passage for the birds and ourselves, with a small berth. I do not think it will be pleasant, but I will not be on the deck in the sun.” There is not much of it yet, just barely kissing the horizon, but time will change that. Estinien makes a soft sound of acknowledgement, glad enough they will be able to keep Aymeric from the discomfort of exposure. Himself as well, if in his case, the stress of the fear that they would be exposed otherwise to someone who recognized them.

Estinien will grant this much: the ship does arrive when promised.

((-----))

As feared, the ‘berth’ or whatever else they called it turns out to basically be set of bunk beds in a closet, barely enough clearance to stand next to them. Estinien looks, snorts, and starts to shove the bags onto the top bunk. Aymeric steps in beside him, sighs at the sight, and pulls the door closed. “Well, I did suspect as much. I suppose you mean us to crush in together?”

“We will be crushed either way,” which was true; the length of the beds was clearly built to a smaller hyuran scale, “and you would refuse to let me climb to the top when still injured.” Estinien catches the ghost of Aymeric’s boyish smile on his face, proof enough his thought was true. After the experiences of recent days, it is a reassurance to see the sparking embers of the man he first fell for are still there. (And oh, _Fury_ , it is strange to think that way now and know it is true, know it is true and they both _know_ now.)

Aymeric does his best to fold himself into the lower bunk as Estinien finishes with the bags, shoving the thin pillow against the wall as a back rest. Carefully, with a great deal of contorting, the dragoon manages to unlatch such armor as he had worn, not wanting to accidentally stab Aymeric himself by a wrong motion wedged into bed together. He only barely manages it before they must have pulled out to sea, because the increasing faint rocking sets him to stumbling uneasily, all but falling to the bunk next to Aymeric.

The nobleman laughs softly and pulls Estinien to lie with him, chest to back, lips still pink and warm brushing the back of his ear for a moment. A hot flush runs through him at the memory it invokes and the dragon-blooded shifts hips uncomfortably, adjusting his posture for more ease. There is little else to do on the journey and much they are likely to need to do on arrival. Without discussion, they both do their best to drop into what shallow sleep they can manage, Aymeric’s arms staying wrapped to hold him close and dear.

((-----))

Fond as he may be of Aymeric in general, after several bells of restless and aching slumber squeezed awkwardly into a single bunk is enough to significantly dull Estinien’s enthusiasm for closeness. Waking rather earlier due to his lingering discomfort, he squirms free from the noble’s sleep-slackened grip, perching on the edge of the slim bunk as he digs out one of his earlier purchases.

A few minute’s focus fills his belly with a surprisingly pleasing stewed fish pie. Aymeric has rolled to curl around his back, instinctively seeking warmth even in his sleep. After making sure his hands have been scrubbed as clean as he can get them with his handkerchief, Estinien steals a few seconds to run fingers through strands like the feathers of a raven’s wing, expression soft. Alright, perhaps his enthusiasm for closeness has not _completely_ disappeared.

A rough swallow shoves down emotions, affection and that lingering hint of nerves alike. Estinien shakes the vampire’s shoulder. “Better force yourself awake, we should be within a bell or so of Limsa Lominsa.” With a low noise of discontent, Aymeric tosses an arm over his face and tries to burrow down more into the thin mattress. Estinien sighs. If _one_ thing has clearly changed with the vampirism, it is Aymeric’s swap from a bright and eager morning person to preferring to sleep deeply until the sun sets, taking genuine effort to rouse. He continues to shake and prod the noble’s avoidant form, until finally Aymeric snarls and hauls himself upright to sit, blinking slowly.

He waits ‘til he sees awareness properly in those levin-blue eyes, then passes across the other pie he bought in the morning. “Eat up. You certainly aren’t going to have time to feed properly before we arrive, even were you willing to.” Judging by the slight line of concern between Aymeric’s brows as he unwraps his meal, it is an accurate assumption. Estinien takes a moment to scrutinize his companion, watching his movements (still smooth) and his color (still pink-tinged and warm) for any suggestion it is a more immediate concern.

Satisfied they should at least reach Limsa, he hauls himself upright and starts to strap armor back on. “Better change if you intend to before we meet anyone.”

((-----))

They are halfway down the pier, Aymeric’s hood still pulled heavily forward against the fading sunbeams of early evening, when a woman clears her throat and stops in front of them. A hand on the vampire’s arm as a precaution and Estinien rakes his eyes over the red-coated form; a miqo’te, dark-haired, dark eyes gleaming beneath the brim of a soldier’s cap. Or so Estinien assumes; he has not made battle with Lominsan forces, but it is hard to imagine what else would require something so starched and uncomfortably formal. “You two are the travelers from Ishgard, yes?”

_If only the damn sun was down already_. Estinien clears his throat and takes a half-step forward, wanting to keep Aymeric behind him safely. Never mind that he is the injured one. “Aye. I was not aware we were expected.”

“The Seedseer told the Admiral you may be headed this way. She thought she might be wanting to talk to you a little given that.”

A prickling sensation of curiosity and what might even be hope branches out from his bonding scar, enough that Estinien trusts to it and nods to the woman’s words. “We would be interested. I take it you will be showing us the way?”

A brief, tooth-filled grin is answer enough and the woman turns smartly, starting to weave her way through the crowds, gesturing now and then to be sure they are following.

((-----))

The Maelstrom is apparently nothing if not efficient; by the time the sun is dipping below the horizon, they are stepping out of a smooth-moving elevator into a high office that looks out on the sea and the rapidly darkening sky. In addition to what he can only assume is the Admiral herself, the room contains a hulking male roegadyn with grey hair, and a few lower ranked guards. The admiral’s gaze is coolly assessing, sweeping over both of them without fear. “Hoods down, I heard you Ishgardians put weight on manners.”

Beside him, Aymeric raises his hands, carefully easing the concealing fabric away from his face. The hood falls in graceful folds around his shoulders, hair still smooth and neat, and for a split-second Estinien is once again struck dumb by how _lovely_ his bonded is. Then he remembers where they are and what is happening and he rapidly jerks his gaze back to the Lominsan leader, praying that his moment of _distraction_ was not evident. It seems that her eyes were mostly for Aymeric as well, hands folding atop her desk. “Well. You certainly are pretty enough to make an impression, aren’t you? No point in wasting time, in any case. Unlike my compatriot, we hold no allegiance to the spirits here. So long as you are willing to work in exchange and obey the laws of the land, you are welcome in Limsa.”

It does not seem like it can possibly be that simple. Estinien tries to catch Aymeric’s eye, but his face has gone fox sharp in a politician’s cast. “What work did you have in mind?”

There is something not unlike watching the practice duels in the discussion that follows, a give and take and pressing for advantage that while he could not replicate with words himself, the dragoon surely recognizes. Within a few minutes, Aymeric has agreed to act as a ‘consultant’ for the Maelstrom on matters vampiric and Ishgardian, and Estinien supposes there are worse jobs than pet informant. In exchange, they gain lodging, safe passage within the city, and the promise that some of the officers who are still closer to the people will arrange to figure out which among the residents of negotiable services might be willing to provide blood for payment.

That stings like acid, burning in his chest, but Estinien is all too regretfully sure of the necessity. He may love Aymeric, but he alone cannot serve his every need at all times, no matter how much he wishes it were so. Still, it is a hard reflection of their tenuous position, but acceptable to keep the vampiric lord safe and in control.

The discussion is wrapping up when Merlwyb drops the most shocking information yet. “If you would like, there are some others with your condition who defected from the Garlean Empire who we are contact with. Shall I arrange a meeting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, want to talk and hang out with other people who love FFXIV fic, whether it be writing it or reading it? Please stop by [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) and join us!
> 
> Want to bug me specifically? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> If you are so kind to have read this and are up to it, authors thrive most entirely upon comments, a crumb is ever appreciated.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the first two scenes, this one is pretty much smutty emotional super NSFW time, fair warning up front. Hopefully you enjoy this bit of settling into a new home.

For an instant the bond is so silent with shock that if he did not still see him in front of him, Estinien would have thought Aymeric had disappeared. Slowly, then all at once, the tingling anticipation of curiosity rushes in, followed by the trembling intensity of excitement. It is enough that the vampire almost stumbles over his words, his eyes wide. “Garleans — others! — with… Yes, please, I would be extremely interested in speaking with them. We would be even more in your debt.”

Something even Estinien has no doubt that Merlwyb was well aware of with the offer; aye, this deal seems good for them, but he has no doubt there will be some sort of threads or conditions. It would be foolish otherwise. He turns his gaze back to her, trying to stay hard and unruffled in contrast to Aymeric’s more open warmth and interest. The Admiral nods solemnly to his response, lifting one hand to indicate one of the aides. “We will draft a letter in the morning. It makes take a few days before they are available, but I shall keep you updated. For now, the Storm Commander will show you to the quarters we have selected. I think they will serve admirably.”

You would think that would be all, but no, there are still a few rounds of pleasantries and partings because they finally are readmitted to the elevator, accompanied by the same miqo’te officer as before. Aymeric’s emotions through the bond are so excited at the possibilities that it feels as if there is a second heart in his chest, and this one is racing at top speed. Shifting his weight, he digs an elbow into the vampire’s ribs, muttering as softly as he can, “I don’t know any more than you do, and she said it may take a while. Save the questions for later.”

The look he gets in return bears a trace of petulance at the reproach, but the storm of over-eager emotion retreats to something far more bearable.

((-----))

They are led across a bridge to one of the towering stone pillars that dot the harbor, then inside where a set of doors are marked with number plates. Individual dwellings. They are each presented with a key, and led to door number 5, which opens with an easy turn of the lock.

Once more, Estinien is struck by the distinct style differences between here and Ishgard. White walls, dark wood floors, accents in blues and greens, brass everywhere. The space is, well, _bright_. Some of that is the light of the moon reflecting off the water through the large windows, although heavy storm shutters stand ready to be swung shut against inclement weather. _Or to fully block the sun_.

Their guide nods to the windows. “North facing, which folks around here don’t like much, but we thought might suit you. Storm shutters can be locked. Use them for your own needs, but if you don’t lock them up in a proper storm, the Admiral will have very unhappy words for you if the place gets wrecked.” She gestures to the small kitchen with her chin. “There’s just nonperishables right now, but should be well enough t’ keep yourself fed. The other two doors are the bedroom and a bath.”

While Aymeric starts to thank her and clarify details, Estinien wanders slightly, peeking into the rooms past the closed doors. The first is the bath, a windowless affair with a glass-walled shower and — thank Halone! — a proper soaking tub, if rather smaller than the one they used to share in Ishgard. The realization that that has become his model is subtly embarrassing, and he can feel heat burning the tips of his ears as he moves to look into the bedroom.

A single window, a comfortably enough sized bed with a canopy — not that they need that much room, with how Aymeric _clings_ in his sleep, a wardrobe, dresser, two chairs set where one can look out the window. Coming back out to retrieve some of their luggage, he finds Aymeric alone and standing at the window, surveying the horizon. “Does everything pass muster?”

He moves to stand by the noble lord’s side, looking out over the water, the dark waves mesmerizing as they cast shifting reflections of the moonlight. “Seems defensible enough. Might even be pleasant.” The vampire shifts, leaning his head to Estinien’s shoulder and slowly softening as he relaxes into the dragoon’s slightly taller form. Awkward at first, he slings an arm around his lord’s shoulders in return, reminding himself that he has the right to do this, to hold him close.

He does not know how long he stands there, surprisingly content, before a stray thought is illuminated as surely as if the moon had suddenly appeared behind the clouds. He had lived in Alberic’s home, in dormitories, made nests and camps in ruins and wilds, and most recently, occupied Aymeric’s home with him. None of them have felt _his_ , even when he called them home, because they were temporary or beholden to someone else’s will first. But this simple space, while no Ishgardian manor, is something far rarer and more precious; it is something that will be _theirs_.

When Aymeric finally stirs, Estinien lets out a regretful breath even as the lord kisses the slope of his shoulder. “I am going to test out our new bathing suite in the wake of our travel. Might I suggest you do the same afterwards?” Estinien wrinkles his nose at the request — it is not as if he did not bathe when he last had opportunity! — but nods his agreement, watching Aymeric’s retreat with a fond smile.

((-----))

His own shower complete and redressed in naught by loose pants for sleep, Estinien wanders back into the main room to find Aymeric settled on the couch with a cup of tea, his own hair already mostly dry. Alas, while that seems convenient, now that he knows how much Aymeric appreciates the length of his hair, the odds of it being cut are even lower. A flicker of memory as he steps closer, the controlled and cultured man before him burning with power on a field strewn with bodies.

Yet he must believe Aymeric will not hurt him. _Does_ believe it, even, and he crosses the space with confident strides. He is still a dragoon, and he will not let himself be bound away from anything by _fear_ , especially for something as trivial as his personal safety. Taking the cup from Aymeric’s hands, he sets it on the side table, looking down at the vampire thoughtfully. “You haven’t fed since the attack.”

“I have not needed to.” Aymeric says mildly, although a slight spark of tension pain in his side proves that his calm tone is as much a lie as Estinien expected.

“But you could now.”

A hesitation. “Yes.”

Movements careful and deliberate, Estinien kneels straddling Aymeric’s lap, knees digging into the sofa seat. A toss of his head to chase hair behind his shoulders, bare his stretched neck to the vampire’s gaze. The pain becomes heat, a low, pleasing burn like a banked fire after coming in from the cold. It takes a second’s courage, and his fingers sink into glossy black curls, gripping firmly as he guides Aymeric to his neck in invitation. Voice soft and his pulse coming faster, the dragoon huffs, “I trust your control.”

Even if he could not _feel_ how emotional the truth of that makes Aymeric, the trembling hands that reach to slowly trace the muscles of his shoulders would be proof enough. Soft, hesitant but growing surer, lips trace along Estinien’s vein, a hand now coming to grip the hair at the nape of his neck. They pull one another closer, hands knotted in strands of ebon and argent, and after one last kiss, Aymeric parts his lips and _bites_.

His beloved’s aether swirls over him until he is all but immersed. A flicker of irritation and resistance where he has held onto the aetheric link to the Eye, let it keep bolstering him. Yet the instant it seems to object to this he shuts it away, only dimly remembering that an artifact should not contain enough personality for that flash of resentment at being pushed out. He should remember, keep that in mind, but in this moment, it is all so easy to forget, to close himself to anything but his bonded’s touch on him, hands strong and sure, the sensation of being interlaced magically rather than physically.

He can hear his own low moan, feel the slow pulse of Aymeric’s steady, measured draw on his blood. Warmed and trembling, his hips grind down involuntarily, and he becomes aware of the heat and rigidity of the vampire’s own eager response through their pants. The hand not twisted into his hair slides down to grip his waist, pulling him in closer and stilling him simultaneously. The desire to whine a protest sends a flash of embarrassed heat through him, but he holds himself in place. Even if every instant until Aymeric finishes, short though they may be, is a moment where he feels all but burning with dragon flame along the points where their bodies press together.

He cannot even blame the vampire’s power; he can feel Aymeric’s restraint, that he is trying to keep it from being overwhelming in arousal as well as intimacy… but the two are too closely intertwined for him, where the noble is concerned. When fangs finally slip free and Aymeric gasps in an uneven breath against his neck, warm and moist, Estinien lets impulse take over, his own grip moving now to pull the vampire’s mouth up, where he can kiss his night-tressed lover, taste the metallic tang of his own blood he deepens the kiss, lips parting in eager welcome.

It is with clear reluctance on Aymeric’s part when he breaks the clench, fingers loosening their grip to stroke along the back of his neck in a manner no doubt meant to be soothing. “As much as I enjoy this, and I suspect you are quite aware of the proof—” as if to provide evidence, Estinien takes advantage of his weakened grip, pressing hips down to meet the noble’s, emphasizing the veiled slide of heat and hardness against one another. Aymeric gasps before continuing, face flushed, “You should not feel compelled by the effects of the bite to—“

He is cut off when Estinien lunges back in to recapture his lips, biting at the lower one. His teeth may not be fangs, but he can leave his mark all the same, sucking on the captured flesh ‘til it is swollen and lightly bruised when he lets go. Voice a low growl, he fists one hand tighter in Amyeric’s hair, the other dropping to start loosening the buttons on the broader man’s pajama top, one by one. “Or, I could be _choosing_ to do this, because I seem to recall having made a rather terrifying admission back in the desert to soothe you, and if I am going to go about openly stating my _love_ , I expect you to at least properly fuck me for my trouble.”

Aymeric blinks, then laughs warmly, shifting so they are pressed, forehead to forehead. “You are insufferable and ridiculous, and I love you more than anything, my darling Estinien.” Flushed with warmth at hearing those words, the dragon-blooded half-shakes his head, although most of what that actually accomplishes is brushing his nose against Aymeric’s and making the crystal dangling from the cuff at his ear brush against his skin teasingly. Popping the final button free on his lord’s shirt, he roughly shoves it off Aymeric’s shoulders and down his arms.

“Is the bottle still in the same pocket of your bag?” Fond amusement still shines on Aymeric’s face as he nods his agreement, Estinien starting to peel himself away. “I’ll fetch it. I would suggest losing the pants too.” The vampire’s gaze all but scorches his back with desire as he disappears into the bedroom, finding the bottle of lube among their still unpacked things. He shucks his own pants, comfortable in his nudity. (More so than he cares to admit; in Coerthas, even indoors and warm, the cold always is there, lurking, and knowing the night outside is cool and comfortable is surprisingly freeing.)

On his return, he is pleased to find Aymeric now on full display, sprawled against the blue of the sofa, pale gold skin with its intricate runes and starbursts of scarring all but luminescent in contrast. For a second, he is struck immobile and dumb, as awed as ever that beautiful, unearthly Aymeric is there with and for him. Then the artistry of the moment is undermined when he notices, to more amusement than he wants to let show, that Aymeric has spread a towel under himself, protecting the furniture.

Midnight gaze meets electric morning sky, and Estinien closes the distance, smoothly reclaiming his seat. With, he must admit, a rather loud groan of pleasure when doing so brushes his cock against Aymeric’s. As much as he wants the other man inside him, that is a sensation he would not at all object to spending a leisurely night exploring some time. His lord pulls him down into a kiss, one strong hand taking the bottle from his own grip.

A steady patter of kisses against his skin, from lips to jaw, along the length of his ears, tongue teasing the tapered points, almost covers the sound of the bottle opening. It does nothing to conceal the way he gasps when a slick finger presses to his hole, nor Aymeric’s eager groans as he starts to tease and work the tight opening. Lips tug lightly at the dangling crystal, the pressure conveyed through to his sensitive ears, and by the time he adjusts to the sensation, he realizes there are already three fingers pressing into him, pumping steadily before curling to seek that sweet spot.

They find it and he gasps sharply, arms wrapping Aymeric’s shoulders, pulling him closer, although he cannot be as truly close as he wants with those fingers still in him. Alas, after his earlier demands, his dark-haired lover seems quite happy to take his time before moving on. Firm fingers keep slowly pressing within in that steady rhythm, letting the dragoon rock his hips each time, slowly gliding their cocks against one another, drips of precum slicking the heads and leaving slippery trails against one another. Finally, desperate for more, for a release, he leans his lips against Aymeric’s ear, letting out his plea in a breathy moan. “Please, my lord, my love!”

The instant he relents, thick fingers reluctantly slipping from the needy clutch of his body, Estinien rocks up, tensing his thighs and shifting, feeling the incredible heat of the head of his partner’s prick dragging along his skin until he feels the moment it slides to the right place. A quick grip of his hand and an utterly shameless and rapid lowering, pressing himself down on Aymeric’s shaft so it surges up into him in a single long glide. Even with all the time spent riding the other man’s fingers he can feel the slowly subsiding burn of stretch and impatience, but it is nowhere near discouraging to his lust.

He makes himself a game of finding the rhythm with which to flex his thighs, to rock and come down on the insistent pressure and stiffness of his lover’s cock, to force it against that spot ‘til pleasure and the brilliant flare of need within is like the rising sun chases away any discomfort. He is panting, almost desperate as Aymeric manages to work a hand between them, grabs firmly at his own arousal and squeezing so he fucks into the noble’s fist as he eagerly rides him.

He tries to drag it out, as much as he can, slowing his pace when the tension vibrating within him like a bowstring seems like it will snap. Then after the second time he tries that trick, plush lips find his own again, whisper against them, “Would that I could paint the inside of my eyelids with you like this, wild and sweating and _needing_ me, loving me…” Aymeric’s voice catches on the last and the arrow is loosed by the archer’s hand, unintended, Estinien ululating a low cry of his bonded’s name as climax overtakes him. It proves too much for Aymeric as well, the clench, the insistent _squeezing_ around his cock, as if Estinien’s very body is pleading for him to follow, the dragoon feeling his own release seep down between the lord’s fingers even as he groans low and long while he floods his beloved.

A few final lazy rolls of his hips, too much but still good, before Estinien lets himself go limp, resting his weight heavily on Aymeric. The knight cradles him close, stroking his back and sides in long, slow movements. When a little more time has passed, and breathing is easier, he mumbles weakly, “Bastard. Yes, I love you, did you need to hear it again?”

Then Aymeric is laughing once more, brilliant with happiness, tired but warm and strong as he lifts him off, the towel now put to full use before the vampire lets him free. “Yes, I rather think that I did. ‘Tis not so far now until the dawn. Might I suggest an early retreat to test the comfort of our new bed? For actual sleep, for now.”

Estinien snorts but lets his feet lead him precisely as suggested. A solid day of sleep, in a bed that belongs to him as well as Aymeric, sounds utterly enticing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, want to talk and hang out with other people who love FFXIV fic, whether it be writing it or reading it? Please stop by [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) and join us!
> 
> Want to bug me specifically? My various social media (an be found via [my carrd](https://nightmist.carrd.co).
> 
> If you are so kind to have read this and are up to it, authors thrive most entirely upon comments, a crumb is ever appreciated.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a moment to check over the end notes for some updates about this story!

Estinien tries to accompany Aymeric to the first of his extended meetings with Maelstrom intelligence analysts, agonizingly slow and detailed reviews of every minutiae of knowledge he can recall on major Ishgardian figures. Two bells in, the vampire stops, rubs at his face with both hands, and catches Estinien’s gaze. “Enough. Even if you think you hide it, I can practically feel the air vibrating with your boredom. I am safe enough here, at the heart of the Lominsan military. Find a way to keep yourself occupied.”

Occupied. _Hah_. He wanders the docks, finds that he can earn a little money and a little peace of mind in exercising his body helping haul cargo on and off the ships, one corner of his attention always on the bonding scar and the quiet omnipresent feel of Aymeric that lingers at the edges of his senses. The least change in that and he would be gone in an instant, but the urge never comes. So, after that first time when he must wait, he comes down to the docks and loses himself in the ache and rhythm.

An old roegadyn woman sits on crates nearby every evening, wrapping sailor’s shells and sharks’ teeth and strange foreign coins with thread, turning them into jewelry. The third night, he digs the dragon’s eye from his pocket when things are slow, half-hiding it in his cupped hand. “Could you wrap this?”

He can see the question in her eyes, at why he would ask her to take a true gemstone and not a proper jeweler. But she nods all the same, and he crouches on the balls of his feet before her and watches as she uses black thread to spin an intricate webbing of knots that allows the relic to hang in the shallow valley over his sternum, warm against his skin. Despite the fact the ruby ought to appear far more valuable than the coins he gives her for the work, she is oddly eager to hand it back to him when finished.

When he undresses for bed that night, Aymeric stops him, laying one hand flat against his chest. He barely touches the relic with his fingers, moving the Eye ever so slightly to catch the light. “Are you sure that is wise?” A small piece of Estinien urges him to slap that gentle touch away, growl and snarl and keep Aymeric from touching _his_ power, say he has no right. _But that_ _is not true. He has every right, by blood and magic and by my own choices. I want him near me, want to be his, as he is mine._ There is a surge of confusion and the brief instinct to keep the noble away fades.

Dragging in a ragged breath, Estinien turns his head, presses lips to where Aymeric’s tousled curls brush his forehead. “The gold bands are not enough if someone comes when I am out in the city. If I wish to be sure I will have enough power and my drachen mail remains here in our quarters, ‘tis best that I have the eye at hand as well. Whatever made it so important to Charibert, it is still one of the only tools I can keep near without drawing attention.”

There is doubt in Aymeric’s soft hum of acknowledgment, but he shows no inclination to argue in word or with command and that is enough.

((-----))

The fourth night the first of the volunteers arrives shortly after sunset. A hyur, pretty enough, or he supposes so. He rarely pays attention to the attractiveness of others, not since years ago when Aymeric made it impossible anyone else could compare. She is polite and pleasant, and it still itches like he rolled in stinging nettles. He refuses to learn her name yet; he probably will eventually, but for tonight, he allows himself to be petty.

His mind seems to buzz in and out as Aymeric explains what will happen to her, the conversation registering in bits and pieces. “Heals in a day or two.” “Might sting at first but will not feel unpleasant.” “Please make sure to get a good meal—“ It all finally fades to a dull hum as the vampire leads her to an armchair, settles her in place.

When he leans over her, one hand braced against the back of the chair and feeds it all goes as quiet as if Estinien has no hearing at all. Aymeric does not touch her in any way, other than briefly tilting her chin into a better position, aside from the press of lips and teeth to her neck. Yet, even with one hand on the chair, one stiffly held away, the woman’s hands in her lap, it seems so… _close_.

There is no flush of warmth through his bonding scar, no swell of arousal. And _yet_. Even if it has no obvious effect on Aymeric, it has at least a little on his meal, the hyur’s face at first awkward and stiff, then as the bite takes effect, her lips lightly parted, eyes losing focus before slipping dreamily closed. After withdrawing fangs and standing straight again, Aymeric is all the noble gentleman in offering her a handkerchief to dab at her neck, and promising that Estinien will escort her safely back to the main thoroughfare.

He would rather never see her again, but it matters not that the order was implied and without any compulsion at all. As he has for so long, Estinien accepts and moves as Aymeric desires, for the sake of faith and trust alone. The dragon-blooded reaches for the light scarf he has taken to wearing wrapped around his neck and shoulders outside, feeling her eyes lingering on the all but healed marks on his own neck.

At least she waits until they are outside to ask. “So you…”

Estinien cuts her off with a grunt of acknowledgment.

They keep walking, the whore’s gaze thoughtful. (His mind hesitates at the word, which seems too rude, but she is selling her blood and her body, so what else should he call her?) “I think I don’t mind if you two call on me again. Whole thing is weird, don’t get me wrong, but I put up with a lot more than a little licking and biting for less.” She lifts slightly onto her toes, eyes on his scarf and the gold band beneath it again, and a sly look comes over her features. “Helps that neither of you are much for women, don’t it?”

Estinien almost trips over his own feet, half-stumbling, Haurchefant’s distant warning flickering in the back of his brain. “Ah. Well.” Then again, if he admits to that much, she will likely pass on to others in her, ah, field of expertise that there is no point in trying to seduce him or Aymeric to get more money. “I do not think you ever have to fear any sexual misbehavior.”

A raucous laugh is accompanied by a hearty slap on his back and it is strangely reminiscent of being a young soldier, teasing one another about their lasses or lads back home. Estinien pretends he can no longer feel the hint of a blush that warms his face. “Forgive me. What… What did the bite feel like for you?”

“Don’t you know?”

He is so careful to avoid eye contact he almost trips again. “You do not have to answer if you do not want to.”

He thinks she may well have decided to do exactly that when she finally speaks up. “It stung for a second, but then it was like soaking in a hot bath after a long day. Warm. Relaxing.” As the woman speaks, she rolls her shoulders, one hand rubbing at the remnants of the bite marks on her neck. “Tiring, though.”

Estinien makes a low, faint grunt in acknowledgment as he turns that over in his mind. “Eating meat afterwards helps with that.”

((-----))

After he returns home, Aymeric grabs his hands, eyes gleaming hotly, and ensures that when the vampire leaves for that night’s meeting, it is with Estinien’s taste fresh on his lips.

((-----))

Their arranged meeting with the Garleans comes a sennight after they have settled in Limsa. Precaution, perhaps, but they arrange for a private dining room at the Bismarck. Aymeric deems it best to arrive early, which suits Estinien fine. He would rather have dressed them both in armor, yet for some inscrutable reason the vampire insists on their both dressing up ‘properly’. Alright, Aymeric does back down from the full formal Ishgardian attire, in part because they did not waste space on clothes that fancy, and in part because it would stand out like a sore thumb in Limsa, and...

Anyway, the point is, he is allowed to bring his spear, and the gold bands are hidden under the collar and cuffs of his shirt, and the ruby hangs warm and heavy between his pectorals. Aymeric sits at the head of the table, looking every inch the nobleman in exile that he is. Estinien leans back against the wall behind him, although in the wait before the Garleans arrive, he might leave his post once or twice to snag another one of the rather delicious little spinach pastry things brought in to whet their appetites.

(Absently, in the back of his mind, he wonders if he could convince Aymeric to come here again, together. Or even better, get something to bring home…)

His musings are enough to keep him from getting too tense before there is a quiet knock and a waiter brings in a bucket of chilled wine and admits with him two men in traveler’s cloaks. Estinien is not sure what he expected — something like Aymeric and himself, closely matched, or a male and female set, like Zephirin and Heustienne. There is no question both shapes are masculine, but one is tall and slim, sharp even in the swathing folds of a cloak, while the other is short and heavily muscled.

The hoods even after dark make a lot more sense when they lower them, though. Both men? Are Garlean. Third eye and all. Estinien really wants to stare and for once it is a struggle to keep his gaze on Aymeric. The tall one is the vampire, he is pretty sure, something in his sure, smooth arrogance a giveaway, blonde wavy hair styled within an inch of its life. Which makes the short one with feathery hair the same hue as his own the servant.

Aymeric stands and introduces them both, all grace and polish. Neither Garlean is so exquisitely mannered; the tall one introduces himself as “Nero Scaeva” with a brief hang of a pause between the two names. The short one has a much easier time of it, the name “Cid Garlond” rolling off his tongue without hesitation. Neither name means anything to him, but it must for his bondmate, because an almost electric tingle of excitement not his own flickers along his spine.

“I hope that I am not incorrect, but I believe that I have heard of both of you as designers and engineers of some note in Garlemald. Finding you here, as you are, is most unexpected.” Ever gracious, Aymeric pulls out chairs for each man, the conversation lulling when the waiter brings in the first course.

Nero and Aymeric both barely pick at their food; Estinien and Cid together make up for it.

After some banal pleasantries and the first flush of food and alcohol in bellies, Nero sets down his fork and braces one elbow on the table, hand curling under his chin. “To return to your earlier unstated question, the reasons for why we are here have a great deal to do with what we are. Much like you, my transformation was for political reasons, but not for the sake of my own value as an asset to the Empire, as it should have been.” Oh, yes, there is not even an attempt to hide the bitterness behind that, and Estinien grudgingly admits to himself that he likes the man’s candor.

Far more forthright than himself, apparently, Nero’s bonded takes over the line of the story as he interrupts with a brief laugh. “Now, be reasonable. They only thought you could keep control of me because you were the only person they weren’t certain I would run intellectual circles around. Making you reliant on them and the need for blood was not completely about having you bond me.”

“They _ought_ to have recognized my far superior skills and loyalty were worth a great deal more than acting as the leash-holder for a petulant rich _brat_ , Cidolfus.”

“And you ought to have realized that being given enhanced strength, speed, and permanent access to a genius-class mind to provide you with the best-quality dining experience was likely to be far more beneficial to you than them. They should have realized that forcing us to work together was not going to end in you convincing me to return, but in my convincing you to leave.”

“You did not _convince_ me, I merely came to my own realization through a series of intellectual examinations brought about because after feeding I am _unusually_ willing to tolerantly listen to your ridiculous theories—“

Estinien is still watching them bicker back and forth, bewildered. He might occasionally give Aymeric a little grief (or so he defines it in his own mind, just a little _gentle ribbing_ ) but he cannot imagine publicly arguing with him so, and not just because the — his, he supposes — vampire had once properly been his military superior. For that matter, Aymeric might allow it, but most vampires he has met? Never.

“Excuse me, but—“ Aymeric’s smooth, calm voice, unruffled by the disagreement between his companions. “Do you mean the implication the Garlean _government_ is also using the creation of vampires?”

“Oh, they have been since the beginning. Emperor Solus was just smarter about keeping it quiet than your Thordan has been.” Nero says dismissively.

“Which does not mean that they didn’t keep documentation, just that it was classified. Of course, when you have someone with an actual sense of morality and they’re working on one of your really big military projects, well. A person with an enterprising mind could learn a lot. Like that the bond between a master and servant enriches the experience of feeding enough to mean that risking a week or two of travel until you can find a few more willing friends to stretch it out is possible. Even easier if they bond more, although we learned that on our own through experimentation, of course.”

Fork set down with a loud clatter, Estinien growls, mouth once more moving before his mind has caught up. “Aymeric is not bonding any more Fury-damned servants!”

There is a gleam of amused, knowing familiarity in Nero’s smirk that tightens his gut, a resentment that only builds when the vampire soothes mockingly, “There there, dragon boy. You should be grateful. Full of aether, both your own and draconic, while most of our kind have no more potential than any other mortal. Can’t say I’d object to getting a taste of that.”

Aymeric’s hand falls to his knee under the table, a heavy, restraining pressure, meant to both soothe and mark possession. The pads of his fingers rub slow circles as he speaks. “Ah, but even were Estinien willing, he is already claimed. So, you will merely have to continue to wonder.”

Cid laughs even as Nero scowls, one of the engineer’s work-scarred hands patting the vampire’s, a queer reversal of the way his bonded is soothing him. “Nero is merely expressing intellectual curiosity. He has no true designs on your blood, dragoon. Still, if you would ever be willing to participate in some more structured examination of any aspect of your condition, do contact us.”

Dinner continues, and the conversation as well, although rather shallower and more general. The Garleans and their compatriots apparently have made a home in Mor Dhona, which was the source of part of the challenge in arranging this meeting. Surely, there is more they know but only so much can be expected after a single night. When they leave, it is worth the gift of a linkpearl and plans for their return in a month for another dinner.

They walk home after, his hand in Aymeric’s, for who in Limsa will know or care? For here, for now, they are together and finding their place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might have noticed we now have a definite chapter count, and it's only one more! That's because next time is something of an epilogue to this arc. After that goes up, there _will_ be a second book, because we don't want to leave poor Ishgard run by Thordan and vampire cronies forever, do we? Which will mean a chance for some additional PoVs and filling in information.
> 
> So! My request to you, dear readers: Is there anything you particularly want to see covered in the epilogue or eventual second book? There will probably be a brief gap before I start, but knowing what people are here for helps a lot with plotting.

**Author's Note:**

> And as ever and always, my deepest gratitude to the Book Club ( https://discord.gg/b79ufBZ ) for their support, encouragement, and idea generation. If you love reading or writing fic around FFXIV, you're missing out on a truly treasured resource if you don't stop by.


End file.
